


The End of the Beginning

by theSeventhStranger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bed Sex, Canon Divergence - S4, Christmas, Coming Out, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Drunk Sherlock, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Grinding, M/M, Mummy & Daddy Holmes - Freeform, Mutual Pining, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Canon Fix-It, Redbeard is a Dog and Victor Trevor is Not, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Spoiler for The Adventure of the Gloria Scott, bed sharing, bottom! sherlock, sofa sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-08-23 19:33:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 47,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16625123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theSeventhStranger/pseuds/theSeventhStranger
Summary: What really happened, after John became a dad and left Sherlock to his own devices? And when they finally run into each other again, after five long years of not speaking, how will they find a way back to each other?There will be angst and misunderstandings. There will also be lots of love. There will be Christmas.





	1. Chapter 1

When they finally meet again, it’s purely by chance. Sometimes the universe is, in fact, so lazy.

It’s four days before Christmas, half past six in the evening, and Sherlock is caught in a nightmare of last minute shoppers right outside of Harrods. Had completely forgotten about that whole Christmas situation, not relevant, but now that oversight has come back to bite him as he tries to make his way out of the compact crowd.

He’s not sure who sees whom first. Only knows that he would instantly notice the presence of John Watson, anywhere, anytime.

_It’s been five years._

Small particles of icy rain hitting his face, his hair, but Sherlock hardly feels it. The crowded sidewalk turning into a blur, with only one single focus in front of him. Brown leather jacket with shearling collar. Blonde hair now almost half grey. Lots of adrenaline pumping, he is as caught off guard as is Sherlock.

”Sherlock.” John is the one to speak first. ”My God. Wow. Sherlock.”

”John,” Sherlock is eventually capable to produce. From the outside he can hear his own voice, it sounds strange, strangled.

They slowly manage to squeeze their way through the masses, past the bright lights and the cosmetics counter with the heavy scent of perfume in the air. Finally make it to the Asian restaurant at the fifth floor. Sit down at an empty table in a corner. John orders food, Sherlock only has a glass of red wine. Impossible to eat anything right now, obviously.

John is talking. Sherlock feels paralysed, his thoughts scattered around like shards from a broken glass, dropped on the floor. John.

”You’re in London for an interview,” Sherlock says, perhaps a bit abruptly, as his mind is slowly beginning to come back online. ”Second interview, in fact. At Bart’s. Mike encouraged you to apply. Trauma Unit. Staying for two nights.” A quick inhale. ”Where’s Rosie?”

John smiles; a soft, gentle smile. The wrinkles around his eyes (warm, kind) get even more pronounced as he does. Words cannot express how much Sherlock has missed that smile. It fills him with too many emotions, his own skin too tight to hold them, might explode.

”No need for small talk to catch up with you,” John says, still smiling. ”Yeah, I might return to surgery. And Rosie’s with Mary. Stays with me every other weekend now, difficult with the school schedule in the weeks.”

”Oh. Right,” Sherlock says. He blinks, twice, then twice again as he curses himself for the mental blur. ”Not dead.”

John smiles again, a hint of sadness in his eyes this time though. Difficult for him to be reminded of Sherlock’s.. well. _Sherlock’s problems._

”Right. Not dead,” John nods gently.

More wine. Much needed. Conversation flows easier. Despite what John said earlier, there is a need for so called catching up. Can’t deduce details in the past like that, and John certainly can’t deduce things if his life depended on it.

Anyhow. They carefully avoid talking about anything to do with the terribly difficult things that happened, but after the second glass of Barolo, Sherlock’s self control slips.

”A phone call would have been nice.”

His words make John startle.

”Five years, John. Didn’t think that-” He stops himself, feels his cheeks flush with heat.

The silence seems to stretch out for a long time, but it’s probably just a couple of seconds.

”Yeah,” John says. ”Yeah I know. I just- you know. I just let it all.. slide.” He averts his eyes, looks down into the table. ”I know I should’ve. I meant to, so many times, but-”

John stops himself again, then looks up. ”Not like you called me a whole bunch of times, either.”

So many things Sherlock wants to say. Specifically: It’s not fair. You left. You knew about all the shitty things that happened to me. You were the cause of some of it. _You_ should have called.

Doesn’t say it. Instead:

”I prefer to text.”

John smiles again, the warm sparkle back. ”Yes,” he says. ”I know you do.”


	2. Chapter 2

**\- Five Years Earlier -**

From across the table, Greg reached out to turn the recorder off, sighed heavily. “I keep wondering if we should have seen it coming.”

 _Was this an accusation?_ John noticed his fists tightening, tried to relax them, breathe out the surge of anger like he’d learned in therapy.

“How the hell could anybody have seen this coming? He completely lost it in there.”

_An uninvited flashback: His shoe-clad foot pounding into the soft flesh of a living body._

John shook his head, exhaled slowly. “I hit him, Greg. Hit him hard.”

Greg nodded. “You did what you had to, John. If you hadn’t, there’s a high chance we’d be dealing with a murder right now, and not just this.” 

 _The memory of pulling back for more force, then kicking again._ Kicking him hard, without mercy. Losing control. It was the part of himself that frightened John more than anything, the part he’d worked hard to push away somewhere deep down inside. He’d thought he’d succeeded, but today had proved him wrong, once again.

It was like falling into a black hole, like losing the ties to everything else around him. In those moments, there was only burning rage. Like something took over his brain. And in the aftermath, always guilt. Guilt and shame and self-loathing.

 _Sherlock, slumped down on the hard, cold floor of the morgue, looking so lost and helpless._ It had only made John’s rage worse. Oh God. John found himself closing his eyes at the memory.

“John, you really shouldn’t blame yourself. It was the right thing to do.” Greg’s voice felt distant, even thought they were sitting only feet apart.

 _He’d wanted to hurt him. Really hurt him._ If he was being honest with himself, he knew.

All the pent up anger towards Sherlock, everything he’d ever done, from poisoning his tea to jumping off the roof and pretending to be fucking dead for two years, leaving him in a pit darker than hell; it had all merged into one sole point of focus. The singularity before the Big Bang. And then, the explosion.

Sherlock looking up, giving him permission. For what? Anything, John knew. For John to hurt him. For John to beat him to death. Even though his haze, Sherlock had seen what John was feeling, and he had endorsed it. Accepted all of John’s unspoken accusations. The thought made John’s stomach turn.

The words Sherlock had spoken, the final proof that all this was the product of a mind not connected to reality.

_”He’s entitled to. I killed his wife.”_

_”Are you really a doctor?”_ Culverton’s words had stung because they had been justified. How the hell could he not have seen what should have been so glaringly obvious - Sherlock’s crazy smackhead eyes, the absurdity of his accusations toward Culverton. The man-sized holes in his chain of reasoning.

But no, John had just swallowed it hook, bait and sinker, like he always did with Sherlock. Had allowed himself to be blinded by trust and devotion.

 _‘A cereal killer’_ , oh Christ.

***

Half a bottle of scotch to be able to sleep that night.

***

Sometimes, John wished he’d never met him.


	3. Chapter 3

Five days later, John was sitting in a plastic chair in a colourless office at the hospital. On the desk in front of him, piles and piles of papers, folders, books and two empty paper coffee mugs. The doctor on the other side was a woman around his own age, blonde hair pulled back in a simple ponytail.

“Substance-induced psychosis, most likely. Mr Holmes has definitely gotten a whole lot better during his stay here, but it’s still not that easy to predict the track to full recovery. As I’m sure you know, Dr. Watson, a little more than fifty percent come out of this within a few days to a week, but we need to realise it could also be months. And for some…”

The psychiatrist in charge went quiet, then cleared her throat. “Well, there’s no reason to go into worst case scenarios now, is there.” She forced a smile, tried her best to be reassuring. That was kind of her. It was.

She kept talking about treatments and statistics and what the latest research suggested, but John found himself unable to pay attention, his mind constantly drifting off to the last couple of months and the very uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.

”Huh, sorry, what was that?”

The psychiatrist looked a bit annoyed as she repeated her question. ”Were there any major stressors in his life just prior to this? Any idea of what might have triggered the relapse?”

”Erm, well. Yes, I suppose there was. He was working a lot, around the clock I think. And there was… well there was some other stuff as well. Although I can’t really say, I- I didn’t see him that much to be honest. My wife and I recently had a baby, and…” John became quiet again, thoughts swirling around.

After Rosie’s birth, John had made a conscious decision. He was a father now, struggling to meet the insatiable needs of a non-sleeping baby, of a sleep-deprived and cranky Mary, of a job that still carried the same heavy burden of responsibility as it always had. He told himself that there simply was no room for anything else.

No room for Sherlock Holmes and the never ending drama that came with him. Especially not with the way he had been recently, solving cases with a frenzy that John had never seen before.

But that had been good, right? A good thing, that Sherlock was keeping himself busy and useful, even without John as his constant minder. And no, John wasn’t stupid and yes, perhaps in some way he’d sensed that Sherlock’s manic activity might be at least partially fuelled by some substance but-

He’d just chosen to ignore it. Rationalised it, figured that it probably wasn't any cause for concern. That had certainly been what Mary had said, the times he’d brought up his nagging worry. Said that John should stop fussing, that Sherlock was an adult and fully capable of taking care of himself.

Turned out he wasn’t. _But that really shouldn’t be John’s fucking problem._

At least that was what he repeatedly had tried to tell himself, sitting in the sofa in front of some dumb TV-show at night, in the house that was his home now although it didn’t feel like it.

***  
He visited Sherlock two times at the hospital during the week he spent there, dreading it both times and only ending up going because Greg or Molly dragged him there.

As soon as the detox was underway, Sherlock had come back to reality. The hallucinations stopped, so did the paranoia. But he was tired, more tired than John had ever seen him, he slept and slept and slept.

He was also having trouble remembering things, and bombarded John with questions during the short amount of time he managed to stay awake. When John arrived for the second time, Sherlock was sitting up in bed, thinner than ever before but still looking significantly healthier than just a couple of days ago. In his lap was a large black paper notebook.

”What’s that?” John asked, mostly to have something to say. It was not like the conversation flowed freely, the hospital room feeling more like a prison.

”Smythson. British luxury leather goods at its finest. Lambskin, hand stitched. The only notebook worth its name.” Sherlock ran his right hand across the cover, flipped through the light blue paper sheets inside. ”Sir Winston Churchill was a fan, as well.”

”Nice. Sounds expensive.”

”Mmm. Probably. In circumstances like these, Mycroft won’t deny me anything. Well, except for drugs, of course…. Have to strike while the iron is hot.”

”What are you writing in it? A story about your best cases?”

Sherlock frowned. ”No. That’s your job. Or, I should say. Was.” He looked down at the notebook, John looked away as well. Thankfully Sherlock broke the tense silence that followed.

”Figured it would be beneficial to write, to straighten up the memory a bit. What was what, that sort of thing. Sometimes it tends to… blur.” He sighed. ”So. Mary. The aquarium. Didn’t, uh. Go wrong.”

John heard the question, nodded. ”Right. No one was harmed, not a single scratch.” Sherlock grabbed the pen next to the book, scribbled something down.

”And, uh. Um. No sister?”

”No. No sister.”

***

Sherlock had, as expected, refused any kind of inpatient rehabilitation program which, John figured, was probably for the best for all involved. So when Sherlock was released from the hospital, they took turns watching him.

But when John was there with Sherlock, at Baker Street, all he wanted to do was to get away. Away from the flat that still felt like home but so clearly no longer wasn’t. Away from Sherlock’s sadness and resignation and the weight of guilt and regret so heavy on John's shoulders.

”Well, if you’re sure.” John took a last sip from his mug, put it down on the table. It was just so damn hard, sitting in front of Sherlock, the still not quite healed wound a constant reminder of what John did and all the lines that, in his self-righteous rage, he had crossed. Had to get out, just had to.

”Uh, sorry, it’s just, you know. Rosie.”

”Yes, of course. Rosie.”

***

”We’re leaving London.” They were standing by the crowded counter at Speedy’s, a quick coffee before John’s shift began. It had been six months, and everything that had happened seemed more distant, more unreal, for every day that went by. Sherlock had started to take on cases again. Slowly, things were returning to normal.

”We are?” _Oh Sherlock._ John had dreaded this conversation, put it off for far too long now.

”No, I mean- Mary and I. We’ve agreed to take a break from the city. Decided to give Bingham a shot. Mary wants Rosie to grow up somewhere quieter, some place where there’s more nature and stuff and just an easier lifestyle and no commuting and-”

Sherlock had frozen in place, statue-like almost. John waited for a while for Sherlock’s response, but there was none. He was just standing there, immobile.

”Sherlock? Did you hear what I said?”

After a moment that seemed to stretch out forever, Sherlock looked up, met his eyes, spoke with a very quiet voice, not much more than a mumble.  
”So this is it, then? The end?”

John felt the knot in his stomach twist even tighter.

”No! No of course not, don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a couple of hours away, I’ll be in London all the time, and you’re welcome to visit.” _Not bloody likely._

”Of course.” Sherlock stared down into the desk in front of them.

When they parted a short while later, John stopped at a spot where Sherlock couldn’t see him. He let his eyes linger on the tall skinny figure in the long dark coat as he made his way back to the black front door of 221b Baker Street. It was only after a while that John even noticed the sting at the back of his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock had tried to avoid learning the specific date of John’s move; mainly by ignoring his calls and only replying briefly to his texts. (To some of them, at least. He was almost certain he had.)

Done his best to keep up the illusion of everything being the way it should; pretending that John had just… gone away on a trip or something. Day-to-day life was difficult enough as it was now anyway, without the bliss of a seven percent solution to help him get through.

A grey Thursday at noon - Sherlock had just gotten out of bed, was still dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown - there was a knock on the door. _John_. John was standing in the doorway, a bit out of breath, flustered.

”Why haven’t you returned any of my calls? I’ve tried like mad to get ahold of you.” He was wearing a military green fleece jacket that Sherlock recognised, knew it was old, worn. Knew how it smelled, knew how it felt to touch.

”I have been here almost all the time. If it was so important, you could have just come by.” Beneath his breath Sherlock mumbled, ”Since you seem to still remember the way.”

John appeared to balance on the edge between angry and agitated, speaking in a voice a bit too loud. ”The truck is already at the house. They’re loading the boxes, right now as we speak. The whole place is chaos and there’s still stuff left to pack.”

 _Today_. John was leaving today.

”Then why are you here?”

”I need my gloves.”

”Your gloves? What gloves?”

”My black winter gloves. I think they’re in a box in my- in the bedroom.”

Sherlock didn’t quite know what to make of this. All he could think about was John standing there, about to leave.

”Well,” he forced himself to say. ”Then you should go get them.”

”Alright,” John said, still just standing there. Sherlock swept his hand in the direction of John’s bedroom which got him moving. John took a few quick steps past Sherlock, but then suddenly turned around, came back.

Stood in front of Sherlock, posture straight, shoulders back. A soldier’s power stance, drilled into John’s entire being until it was completely automatic in threatening situations. _Collecting courage - but for what?_

”You know I-” John began. Sherlock noticed John’s clenched fists, dilated pupils, quicker respiration. John spoke again, his words short, broken.

”There’s so much stuff. Hmm. That I should say. That I have been meaning to say to you, for a long time now, but. Never did. And now there’s no time and I wanted to see you before today and you could’ve picked up the goddamn phone but-”

John turned abruptly away from Sherlock, started pacing around the room. Sherlock stood still, waiting, had given up on trying to figure out what was going on. No point with John, could never be sure.

” _This_ -” John was clearly getting worked up now, hands waving in broad gestures, his words spoken rapidly, nearly shouting - ”was not my idea, alright!”

” _I_ didn’t want to leave. But Mary felt it was necessary and given everything that has happened and, yes. Fine. I suppose she’s right, in a way. But just to be clear, Sherlock. Just to be one hundred percent clear: I didn’t fucking choose this. I didn’t fucking choose this life but I have _obligations_ , alright!

John inhaled so audibly Sherlock could hear it from where he was standing, frozen in place by the door.

”And yes, I’ve done so many things that I regret, Sherlock. God, you have no fucking idea how much I regret them and how bloody sorry I am. I wake up every single night, thinking about it, over and over again and frankly I don’t understand how we got to this point!”

He let out a short, bitter laugh. ”But I do know that THIS is NOT how it was supposed to be!”

Sherlock’s heart was thumping, his mouth dry.  
”It is what it is, John.”

John stopped pacing. He ran his hands across his face, exhaled shakily.  
”And what it is, is shit.”

They stood like that for a long moment, Sherlock looking at John, John just staring out into nothing. Then John lowered his face into his left hand, and Sherlock’s heart almost stopped when he realised that John was crying.

He slowly walked up to him, desperately trying to think of what would be the right thing to say. Sherlock had never been comfortable around other people’s emotional outbursts, never knowing what to do or say and often ending up just making it worse somehow.

But this was John, and John was obviously hurting a great deal. And Sherlock was the only other person there, so he had to say something.

”It’s okay,” Sherlock tried. John didn’t look up, but suddenly it was easy to know what to do. Sherlock carefully placed a hand on John’s shoulder. The shared heat between Sherlock’s palm and John’s shoulder, _thermal equilibrium, subject of the Zeroth Law of thermodynamics-_

His other hand on John’s back, sliding upwards, cupping John’s neck. Moved in closer, into a hug. They had never been this close before, not like this. He felt John relaxing into his arms, dared to lower his chin to rest it atop of John’s head. The scent of John was making him dizzy.

He didn’t know for how long they stood like that, in the middle of the living room that had been the heart of the home they’d shared. Back when things were so much easier, and so much happier.

An eternity ago, Sherlock had allowed himself to think that it would last. That they would be living on Baker Street, together, for all years to come. That no matter what happened outside - rain, fire, criminals - it would be just the two of them, in their chairs, taking a well deserved rest in front of the glowing coal in the fireplace.

”It’s really not okay,” John mumbled against his chest.

Sherlock thought about his own uncried tears - for everything that had gone so wrong, and for everything that should have happened but never had.

”It is what it is,” Sherlock repeated, quietly.

He allowed himself to inhale the scent of John’s hair, squeezed him harder. And as he did, John pulled him even closer, buried his face in Sherlock’s neck. Hot air hitting Sherlock’s skin, sending a rush down his spine, and then-

Sherlock’s breath hitched.

John had parted his lips, was breathing with his mouth open against Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock noticed how John’s respiration suddenly had changed, it was heavier now, tenser.

 _Impossible_. What could only be described as- _as a kiss_ \- placed just above his clavicle, at the edge of his dressing gown. John’s mouth, back up along the stretch of his neck. Getting bolder; mouthing, nipping. Tasting, Sherlock gasped at the sensation of John’s tongue on the thin skin below his ear.

”John, what-”

”Shhh,” John whispered.

Sherlock’s head was spinning, his heart beat like crazy. Had he wanted this, for years and years. Wanted it more than anything else. Dreamt about it, fantasised about it, longed for it.

The moment had finally presented itself, and he would be damned not to take it.

Sherlock moved his hands to each side of John’s head, leaned down and kissed him.

John moaned, the sound like electricity through Sherlock’s body, then grabbed ahold of Sherlock’s head and kissed him back with an urgency that set Sherlock’s entire body on fire.

John’s lips on his, John’s tongue in his mouth, John’s hand in his hair, gripping- 

Sherlock was drowning in the sensation.

For how long did they kiss? In retrospect,  no way of knowing. But it was John who broke the kiss, still cupping Sherlock’s face in his hands, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s chin. He was panting violently, and Sherlock noticed he was doing the same.

”Oh my God.” John looked absolutely bewildered. ”Sherlock, I’m-” He paused, shook his head. ”I’m so sorry, I don’t know what got into- I’m sorry.”

This time, it was not difficult at all for Sherlock to find the right words.

”I’m not,” he said, and saw a hundred unspoken questions in John’s eyes.

John let his hands slide down Sherlock’s arms, squeezed them briefly, then let go. Stood back, and suddenly, Sherlock felt freezing cold.

His robe had come undone, he wrapped it tight around himself. Didn’t know where to look so he turned his eyes down into the floor. Noticed he was shivering.

They both startled at the sharp signal, cutting through the air. John didn’t take his phone out of his pocket; the ringing stopped but then started again. John took it out, turned the signal off.

”I think I, uh. Need to go. Everybody’s waiting for me, and..”

”Of course.” Mind almost empty, couldn’t think.

”Again, I’m so sorry for this, I don’t know where it came from, I, er. I think I’m just very stressed right now and a bit off balance with this whole moving thing and, yeah. So. I hope that I didn’t upset you too much, I didn’t mean to- Yeah. I’m sorry. For everything.”

With that, he started to walk towards the door, then once again stopped, came back.

”Sherlock, I won’t be far away, alright? So if there’s ever something you need, anything I can do, just let me know. Okay? And- keep doing what you’re doing right now, you hear? Because I need you to look after yourself. Alright? Okay. I’m going to go now. We’ll - we’ll stay in touch, okay - so, yeah. See you soon.”

Looking back, Sherlock wasn’t sure what, if anything, he’d replied. But he remembered, with painfully good clarity, how he’d remained seated on the floor, leaned against the wall for hours after John had left. How he’d run his fingertips over his lips, trying to lock into his memory the way it had felt, kissing John, being kissed back. Trying to make some kind of sense of what had just happened. Not succeeding.

He also remembered how, when the flat was almost completely covered in darkness, he had forced himself up from the floor, stumbled across the room and onto the sofa, pulled the blanket up over his head and tried to go to sleep. _It is what it is._


	5. Chapter 5

_[Sherlock]_

”Gentlemen, I’m afraid we’re about to close.”

Sherlock is quicker than John, discreetly hands over a credit card to the waiter.

”Wait, here’s my c-” John says but Sherlock waves his hand. ”Let me.”

”Alright.” John nods slowly, looks at Sherlock for a bit too long with an expression that he can’t quite pinpoint. ”Thank you, Sherlock. I mean, not just for this, but… It was really great to see you again.” A hint of a smile; he looks- sad? ”I can’t believe it’s been five years, doesn’t feel like it.”

Sherlock thinks that it does. It’s been some 1800 days and most of them have felt like an eternity.

”Yes,” he says, tries to smile.

Their way out of the department store is quicker, the crowds having dispersed after closing hours. They stop just outside the main entrance. John’s hotel is in Covent Garden and Sherlock is heading home. It’s gotten colder, and Sherlock puts his hands in his coat pockets to warm them.

”It’s really quite amazing the way that coat has held up, after all it has had to endure.” John touches Sherlock’s right sleeve lightly as he says it.

”Correct observation, faulty deduction. Try again.”

John smiles, his hand back on Sherlock’s sleeve for a moment. ”Of course. You got a new one, exactly the same. Not a big fan of changes, you.”

Sherlock knows he doesn’t mean anything malicious, that it’s just small talk. _Still feels it._  
”Depends on what’s changing,” he says, and John looks away briefly.

”Well,” Sherlock says. ”Best of luck with your interview tomorrow. They’d be lucky to have you.”  
_Anyone would._

”Thanks Sherlock,” John says, and is about to say something else when suddenly a police car comes around the corner in high speed, sirens on, making a sharp stop right next to them out on the street. The darkened window on the passenger side rolls down.

”Holmes, get in.” It’s Sally, looking frazzled. ”Lestrade’s being held hostage.”

***

_[John]_

And that is why, only hours after stumbling upon Sherlock after all these years, John finds himself in the back of a police car, speeding down the streets, brakes screeching on every turn. It’s surreal; like he’d stepped into a time machine, the familiar feeling of sitting right next to Sherlock, adrenaline running high for both of them.

Sally had done a double take at the sight of John, and on recognition raised her eyebrows pointedly. ”Well if it isn’t the Ghost of Christmas Past,” was all she’d said, not smiling. Then she’d turned back to Sherlock again. ”I’ll brief you on the way."

”24-hour chemist, hole-in-the-wall kind of place. Robbery interrupted by a patrol car, robber took hostage and forced them back out. Currently barricaded in a backroom behind the counter, Lestrade seems to be tied back to some object in there, possibly a safe box, but is not harmed yet as far as we know."

”What the hell was Lestrade doing in a patrol car?” Sherlock spits out. He’s gone from mellow to absolutely focused in no time, eyes wide, body tense, his full focus on what Sally is telling him. This is the Sherlock that John remembers, from all those years back. Hasn’t changed.

”He weren’t in the car, was called there after the hostage situation had become clear. Lestrade came to the scene, found out that the clerk held hostage was a young woman, seven months pregnant, and offered to take her place before anyone had a chance to stop him. Always the genteman. I’ll fuckin’ kill him when this is over.”

Sally is clearly shaken, and John notices Sherlock a bit uncharacteristically stressed as well. On the other hand, he thinks, he hasn’t seen Sherlock in action for a long time now. _Hasn’t seen him at all, to be honest, just let it all slide-_

”Did anyone get a look at the robber during the switch?” Sherlock asks.

”No, not then, but first responders did. Single perpetrator, young man, caucasian. Armed with a handgun, seems to be quite unstable.”

”What else?”

”Nothing, that’s it. That’s all they had a chance to see.”

”Oh God,” Sherlock mutters. ”Idiots, the whole lot. Does he have a transmitter on?”

”No, I’m afraid not,” Sally says. ”But anyway- before he went in there, he told us to call Mycroft to find out where you were, then get you there asap. You should be flattered."

***

Outside the small pharmacy, the activity is frantic. Three police cars, as well as the black undercover car that Lestrade apparently had arrived in, parked in a triangle shaped formation blocking off the street, bathing the entire block in flashing blue light.

John doesn’t recognise anyone, nothing but unfamiliar faces. So different from how it used to be, before. No-one seems to even notice him as he trails behind Sally and Sherlock, under the blue and white police tape, and up to what appears to be the commander at the scene. It’s a man in his fifties, John thinks he looks like he knows what he’s doing.

”The negotiator just pissed the guy off,” he says, turned to Sally. ”So now he’s hung up, refuses to pick up again.”

”Fuck.” Sally turns to Sherlock, explains. ”We’d gotten him to communicate through the landline.”

Someone comes up, carrying a police megaphone, hands it over to what John guesses is the negotiator, a man a bit younger than the Commander, dressed in civilian clothes; a winter jacket with a hood and jeans. He takes the megaphone, holds it up.

”Please pick up the phone,” the negotiator bellows into the megaphone. ”Let’s find a good solution to this together.”

The reply comes almost immediately, in form of a single bullet fired right through the wooden door, hitting the front of the nearest car and making everybody on the outside drop to the wet, freezing ground.

 _Fuck!_ John’s heart is beating hard but steady, one of his greatest advantages both in the military and in his work as a surgeon. John doesn’t panic in situations like this; quite the contrary, in fact. It’s a strange mix between calm and utter focus, nothing else existing but the very moment he’s in. He hasn’t felt like this in a long, long time. _And the horrible truth is that he’s missed it._

Right beside him is Sherlock. John takes a closer look; yes, Sherlock is shaking. ”Damn it,” Sherlock sputters out, getting up from the ground, brushing wet gravel from his hands.

The Commander is also noticeably jittery after the shot has been fired. ”We need to prepare to go in,” John hears him say to the officers standing next to him.

”No!” Sherlock shouts, and the Commander turns sharply towards him. ”Are you the one giving orders around here, huh? One of our men is in there, stuck with a lunatic with a gun, alright. We have to put an end to this before something happens. Communication has broken down, he’s already pulled the trigger once - we have no other option.”

”The risk of hostage being killed in a shootout situation is 31 percent, compared to only one percent with proper negotiation,” Sherlock says, his words rapid. To other people he probably sounds confident, cocky almost, but John can hear the tremble in his voice. ”Give me the megaphone.”

”You? You’re a hobby detective, what the hell makes you think you’d be qualified to negotiate? Officers train years for this, this ain’t no game!”

It’s funny, John thinks, how this triggers such a massive urge in him to step in on Sherlock’s side, to stand up for him, to fight for him. He’d felt it the very first night they’d met, and he feels it now, just as strongly.

He watches Sherlock, sees him frustratedly push back a dark curl from his eyes. His hair has gotten a little bit longer, and it’s twisting tighter in the damp evening air. He still looks younger than his age, maybe even more now. _Beautiful._ John gets an odd sensation in his chest, a whirling unrest. He thinks it looks like Sherlock is about to launch a counterattack- _and yes, there it is._

”Don’t lecture me,” Sherlock bites back. ”That’s my very good friend we're talking about, and he specifically asked for me to be here. I very much doubt he just wanted me to come witness his execution!”

”Sherlock-” Sally says, almost pleading. ”Sherlock, listen, he’s right, you have no experience with this kind of-”

”Just give him the goddamned megaphone, he’s Sherlock Holmes for Christ’s sake!” John realises too late he’s said it out loud. ”Uh, I mean-”

The Commander and Sally look at him with surprise -contempt? - but say nothing. In the corner of his eye, John thinks he can see Sherlock smiling, and it fills him with a happy warmth, just the way it has always done.

The Commander is silent for a long moment, they all stand still just watching him. Then he sighs, heavily. ”God help me. Alright.”

Sherlock has the megaphone in his hand within what John perceives as seconds. Then he turns to the officer standing nearest, a blonde pretty woman who doesn’t look a day over thirty.

”There’s a McDonald’s right down the street. Get me three Big Tasty, one without onion; three large fries, one regular Coke and two Diet, and make it quick.”

”What the- Who the hell are you? I’m a policewoman, not a bloody secretary!” She looks about ready to smack Sherlock in the face.

”I know you’re not,” Sherlock says. ”Far too disorganised, just look at the wrinkles on your uniform, not ironed properly - you wouldn’t last a day in that profession. Hurry up now, make it quick, we don’t have all night.”

”Are you daft, what the f-!” The officer turns to Sally, probably hoping to get some support, but Sally just shrugs. ”Do as the man says,” she says, and with a disbelieving grunt, the young officer turns on her heel and stomps off in the direction Sherlock was gesturing.

Another officer comes running towards them. ”We’ve got a face match on AFR. Name’s Daniel Russo, 23, in the records because of a car theft and DUI last year, sentenced to community service. Unemployed, last known address was at his mother’s in Liverpool but hasn’t lived there for years.”

Sherlock steps up to the officer, stands right in front of both the Commander and Sally. ”I want to see all his activity on social media, right now.”

Sally sighs, looks at the Commander who appears mildly annoyed but shrugs. ”Get the hell on with it,” he says.

***

Watching Sherlock at work again is mesmerizing, John can’t tear his eyes away from him. There are three different phones laid out in front of him on the hood of a police car, and Sherlock is going back and forth between them, scrolling, mumbling to himself; so acutely present for the task at hand.

”Time’s ticking and there’s one of our men still stuck in there in case you- Is that Facebook you’re looking at?? What the hell are you-” The Commander is getting increasingly wound up, and John feels that old, instinctive urge to step into the role to protect Sherlock, knowing very well that Sherlock wouldn’t waste a second if it wasn’t necessary.

”Shh,” John hushes loudly, cutting him off. ”Let him work.”

The Commander’s face turns a dark shade of red, small beads of sweat appearing on his temples, but he actually backs off again, stands there with his arms crossed.

How has Sherlock fared, all these years when John hasn’t been at his side? Surely doing more than fine with the work itself, John has no trouble admitting that much to himself, but- what about this? _Lonely. He’s been lonely._ And then: _I’ve deserted him._ The thought is sharp and piercing, John tries to push it aside.

A minute later, Sherlock abruptly stops what he’s doing, grabs the megaphone that he’d left by his feet, and runs up as close to the store front as the police tape will allow. John hurries after him, the metallic taste of adrenaline in his mouth. Sherlock holds up the megaphone.

Then John’s thoughts turn to Greg, still stuck in there. He thinks about Greg’s kids, thinks about Rosie, if this had been him. _What if Sally and the Commander had been right, what if this really was more than Sherlock could handle?_ Lord knows he’d been prone to say all the wrong things at times, oh God. John feels his gut twist. He’s jolted out of his thoughts by the rumbling sound of Sherlock’s voice through the megaphone.

”Danny,” he says, voice clear, confident - and his accent one hundred percent Scouse*.

”Me name’s William, I’m not with the bizzies. Look, I know you must be starvin’, I’ve got some scran to send in. Pick up the phone will ya.”

John can’t help but smile, feeling worry turn into a warm sense of - well, pride, actually. Pride over this brilliant man in front of him, now the sole center of everybody’s attention. _He’s got this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Scouse is an accent, also called Liverpool English. Bizzies means the Police, Scran means food :)


	6. Chapter 6

Nothing happens. Behind the glass windows and the now shattered door, it’s completely silent, the small room bathed in darkness except for the fluorescent light from a glass-doored refrigerator in a corner.

Sherlock raises the megaphone again. ”It’s from McDonald’s, ’urry up la, the burgers are gettin’ cold. Is proper baltic out ’ere.”

”He’s picked up!” The voice comes from inside one of the cars.

”Headset!” Sherlock shouts back, and almost instantly, two people are fitting him with a small headset, placing a phone in his coat pocket, and Sherlock drops the megaphone to the ground.

”Danny, hi, ta for pick’n up,” Sherlock says into the headset. John notices that the conversation is transmitted to a computer inside one of the cars, he steps a bit closer to be able to hear it.

” ’ow do I know s’not poisoned?” The voice on the other end is surprisingly young, John had sort of expected someone rougher. Christ - just a kid, a kid with a gun, John thinks. And he’s got Greg’s life in his hands.

”Is right Danny,” Sherlock replies. ”I’m sendin’ in two burgers, two fries. Yous take one, give one to Greg, let ’im go first.”

”Greg?”, the kid asks, then understands. ”Ah, ’im. Can’t eat, duck taped his mouth.”

”Prolly best to take it off for now then, eh? You can always put it back ron later.”

***

The food is placed right outside the door. Sherlock is the one standing nearest, John a bit behind together with some of the officers, Sally and the Commander. John gets the feeling that every single one of them is holding their breath when they see Greg slowly approaching, hands tied together in front of him.

Greg carefully opens the door, kneels to reach his tied hands out for the brown paper bag, then backs up to take it inside. John sees Greg’s eyes lock on Sherlock’s for a brief moment, his head moving once in an almost unnoticeable, single nod. Sherlock nods back, reassuring.

Sherlock grabs a police blanket from the nearest car, spreads it out on the ground just in front the entrance and sits down on it, crossed-legged. John thinks that his legs would break if he tried that now. Sherlock has kept a burger for himself - the one without onions, John smiles when he notices. Trust Sherlock to be picky with his food even in situations like this.

At first, Sherlock just sits there, eating his burger. The crew behind him - must be over thirty people at the scene now after the firetrucks arrived - are all watching intently, waiting anxiously.

Then, with a big bite of food still in his mouth, Sherlock starts talking again.

”So, Danny. Mind shar’n what this s’all abar?” John draws closer to the police car, tries to listen in to the transmission. For a moment, silence, but then the kid starts to talk.

”Is fuckin’ arlas, is wha it is!” The kid’s voice is angry, John feels the worry intensify again. He thinks that this, what Sherlock is doing right now, is like walking a tight rope.

”None of ’is would’ve ’appened, had those bloody bizzies not come in and made a show.”

”Uh-huh,” is the only thing Sherlock says, then is just sitting there, silent, as the words begins to flow out of the kid in a steady stream.

He’s telling Sherlock about his life - and despite it all, despite the fact that Greg is in there and the kid is obviously unhinged and has a gun - John feels for him.

The kid’s talking about being thrown out from his mother’s house for doing drugs, about being high and stealing a car. About struggling in school and having belly aches from the constant screaming and fighting at home; about being afraid of his mom’s boyfriend and his bad temper. He’s talking about having no place to live and moving from couch to couch, and then from underpasses to tube stations, from misery to more misery. _Poor sod_.

”I’m well skint, ya know. Not a penny. ’is is the first time I’ave somming to eat for days.” The kid is beginning to slow down his speech a bit. ”Was only try’n to fuckin’ survive.” More silence, then a sudden sob cuts through the transmission.

”’course,” Sherlock says. He’s sitting absolutely still, legs crossed almost as if meditating, right there on the sidewalk in the freezing night. John has lost track of time, quickly glances at the computer screen. It’s close to midnight.

””course you were, lid,” Sherlock says again, softly. ”Been there meself. Done the same.”

The kid stops crying, snuffles, appears to blow his nose. ”Az if.”

”No, s’ true. Was abar your age. Well hooked on beak at that time, was a proper circus.”

John looks at Sherlock, wishes he could see the expression on his face. He knows Sherlock is in character right now, that this is a show, but something tells him that this, what Sherlock’s saying now, isn’t. All those years in Sherlock’s past that John never had the guts to ask about. Didn’t want to pry - or maybe didn’t want to know. Sinking, sad feeling in his stomach.

”Yous blaggin’ me ’ead. Lyin’ to make me trust ya.”

”Am not. Know ’ow you can check? Ask Greg. ’is not hearing this, right?”

”No, ’is not.”

”Go ahead, ask ’im how we met. He was the one who got me out of jail. Was Christmas, just like now. Me ma and pa was, like, done with me, me brother too. Got jibbed. But Greg helped. He got me out, got me some proper scran, some new clobber even. And some time later, he got me a job.”

”Why would a copper do that?”

Sherlock is quiet for while, the crowd around him completely silent waiting for his reply.

”I dunno, Danny,” he says eventually. ”I ’onestly dunno. But he did, and for that I’ll be in debt ’til the day I die.”

More silence, the kid doesn’t speak either for a long moment.

”Danny. I’d do anythin’ for Greg. An’ I would really, really like to ’elp you too.”

Sherlock slowly stretches, unfolds his long legs, begins to stand up. He brushes something -crumbles from the burger bread?- from his coat, straightens his back.

”I’ll go to jail,” the kid says, quietly now. ”Me life will be ruin’d.”

”Well,” Sherlock says. ”We can’t know what’ll ’appen, can we? But I can make sure to get yous a proper attorney. And ya know what, Danny?”

”Wha?”

”Jail, s’not so bad. Not compared to living ou’ere, in the street.” When the kid doesn’t reply, Sherlock continues.

”Come’ead, lid. I’ll ’ave a bifter with you before you go.”

”Alright,” the kid says, after a long moment, and John can feel the collective exhale of relief around him. ”Tell me what to do with me gun.”

***

Sherlock is waiting for the kid to be brought out, searched, cuffed - one hand to an officer, the other hand free, after Sherlock’s specific instructions. _So young_ , John thinks again as he gets a good chance to finally see the kid in person. He’s merely skin and bones. Blonde scruffy hair, hasn’t been washed for a long time; dirty jeans and a dirty hooded sweatshirt, far too thin for the season. The trainers on his feet are falling apart, holes in both of them. John sees some kind of tattoos across the kid’s hands, a piercing through his left nostril. Eyes fixed down into the wet pavement.

Sherlock walks up to him, and when he speaks, John notices that he’s chosen to stay in character.

”Is right, Danny,” he says. ”Well done you.” Sherlock lays a hand on the kid’s shoulder, pats it briefly. He reaches out a cigarette, puts another one between his own lips and lights first the kid’s, then his own. Gray smoke rising towards the black night sky, it has stopped raining but is very cold, John feels it now as the adrenaline begins to subside.

The kid is placed in the police car, John sees Sherlock leaning inside to say something more, and then the car drives off, no sirens on. Lots of people are coming up to Sherlock, patting his back, expressing admiration. John stands at a bit of a distance, unsure of what his place is at this time. It’s been so long, and the wheels have apparently kept on turning anyway. Nobody seems to take notice of him, standing there, so he decides to just wait.

Greg has immediately been whisked off to the ambulance for a checkup, John wonders if he should go over there to assist when Sherlock’s legs suddenly appear to give way, he sits down kneeling, supporting himself with his hands on the ground.

”Sherlock!” John hurries up to him, kneels down next to him. ”How are you feeling?”

”Ah, John. Fine, thanks. I’m fine.”

”Um,” John says. ”I’m sorry but you don’t seem that way. You’re trembling, and your face is white as a sheet.”

”No no,” Sherlock says again, trying to force a smile. ”I’m fine, I’m just- I’m just a little-”  
And then he suddenly stands up again, stumbles a little bit away from John, bends over and throws up.

John waits a minute, lets him finish, then walks up to him again. Sherlock has slumped down, is now sitting right on the ground, arms wrapped around his knees.

”You’ve just been through a hell of an ordeal.” John reaches down, hooks his arm in under Sherlock’s, pulls him back up on his feet. ”No wonder you’re shaking. We need to get someone to check on you, too.”

He drags Sherlock the short distance to the second ambulance, sits him down inside. John looks around but doesn’t see any of the staff, so he grabs one of the orange foil blankets and wraps it tightly around Sherlock.

”You want to lie down for a minute?” he asks, but Sherlock shakes his head. ”Absolutely not.”  
John laughs a little. ”Still a difficult patient, huh?” and is happy when he gets a faint smile and a shrug in return.

He checks his respiration, then finds a stethoscope, holds Sherlock still with a hand on his arm as he leans forward, moves it around to listen to Sherlock’s heart. Strong, even beats - as John listens, he is flooded with sudden memories of the night Sherlock was shot. _Finding him lifeless on the floor, blood everywhere. The long wait for the ambulance, then the long wake at the hospital. The horrific hours when he didn’t know if he’d pull through_ \- He abruptly turns around, pretends to look for something to keep Sherlock from noticing. _Deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth-_

”How’s our hero?” It’s Greg, standing right behind them to peak into the back of the ambulance, then widening his eyes in surprise.

”John Watson? What the hell are you doing here, mate? Haven’t seen you in years, you certainly pick your timing, huh!” He laughs. Greg looks surprisingly fine, John thinks, given the circumstances. Yes, he’s gotten a bit older as well - hair greyer than John’s, a few extra comfort pounds around his waistline - but all in all, it’s still the same Greg.

”Trust me, this wasn’t what I expected waking up this morning.” John goes up to give Greg a quick hug.

”No kidding, me neither,” Greg smiles, then turns to Sherlock again.

”That was quite something, my friend.” Greg climbs up in the ambulance, sits down next to Sherlock, pulls him into a big hug. ”Thank you. Thank you Sherlock. I knew you could do it.”

Sherlock looks a bit lost, John thinks. Still not used to praise and kind words, not sure what to say.  
”Anytime, Greg,” he mumbles. ”Although I’d prefer never again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was fun writing :). Here's a little word list just in case.  
> abar - about  
> arlas - mean person or a bad, unfair situation  
> blaggin me 'ead- lying to me  
> beak - cocaine  
> bifter - cigarette  
> is right - (verbal high five)  
> come'ead - let' s go  
> lid/la - lad/mate


	7. Chapter 7

They’re making their way toward Baker Street through empty streets. It’s a quarter to two, hardly any cars or people out at this hour. John’s hotel is on the way, so he’s in the car, too. Sherlock is sitting leaned against a door in the backseat, oddly quiet, far from the post-case energy John remembers from times past.

He tries to catch Sherlock’s eyes but he’s sitting still like a statue, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance. John takes a closer look, sees that the tremor in Sherlock’s hands is still there.

”Must have been hard,” John says, keeping his voice down so that the officers in the front won’t hear.

Sherlock sighs heavily. ”The entire time..” He’s still looking out through the window. ”I kept seeing all these horrible images in my mind. If I’d said something wrong, and Greg had… Could never live with that, John, you know that, and I-.”

Abruptly, Sherlock turns to look at John. Or stare, rather; his eyes intense, darting from John’s face, to his legs, his feet, his face again. ”Sherlock, what-” John begins, but stops when Sherlock reaches out, grabs his left arm in a firm grip, squeezes hard. He lets go, but then proceeds to press two cold fingers to John’s pulse point in his neck.

”What are you doing?” John asks, an uncomfortable tightness spreading in his chest. Sherlock keeps staring at him, completely quiet. ”Sherlock!”

”Are you real?” Sherlock asks, his voice shaky, his face grave. There is a hint of fear in his eyes.

John struggles a short while to wrap his head around the question. ”Of course,” he says. ”Sherlock, yes of course I’m real. What makes you-”

Sherlock slides closer until his body is almost flush with John’s, leans his head closer, buries his nose in John’s neck, and inhales forcefully. Then he sits back, just as abruptly, on his own side of the seat again.

”Apologies,” he mumbles, looking down again. ”I, uh. I wasn’t sure.”

It occurs to John how very little he knows about Sherlock now. Has no idea of what his mental state has been these past years, except for the small bits and pieces he’s managed to extract from Molly on the few occasions they’ve been in touch. Has heard that Sherlock seems to be doing fine - staying away from drugs, keeping himself busy with work. It has been easy to tell himself that that was all there was to it.

”No problem,” he says. ”I underst-”

”Sometimes I talk to you.” Sherlock interrupts. ”No, that’s not true. I often talk to you. All the time, in fact. Sometimes out loud, although I try to only do that when I’m alone. I talk, and you reply. Helps me to sort things out.”

 _Oh Sherlock._ And even though John would rather avoid the question, the doctor in him feels it has to be asked. ”Do you, um. Would you say that you have hallucinations?”

He sees Sherlock purse his lips, looking down into his lap again, a deep furrow between his eyes.

”…No.” Sherlock shakes his head slowly. ”No, I don’t. Haven’t, not after I got clean. But I thought that I did, now. It just seems… unreal.”

”Sherlock, you know what?” John looks at him, waits until Sherlock looks up again. ”I get it. I do. It -this, tonight, sitting here with you now - it seems unreal to me, too.”

John reaches out, puts his hand on Sherlock’s arm, his throat tight. ”I’ve missed this. Missed you. Very much.”

He can hear Sherlock swallow, maybe his throat is tight, too. Sherlock is quiet for a while, John’s words hanging in the air. Sherlock wraps his coat tighter around himself, huddles up in his corner.

”Are you cold?” They’ve both gotten rather chilled to the bone during the many hours spent outside, but the heat in the car is turned up to max and John’s been thawed up for a long time now.

”Mmm. Just a bit.” John studies him, thoughtfully. Still trembles. They’re approaching the hotel now, almost there. Maybe Sherlock shouldn’t be left alone. He’s clearly had a bit of a shock, and given his history… but then again, who is John to barge in after five long years and impose himself on Sherlock, just like nothing happened?

The car comes to a stop outside John’s hotel, but he doesn’t get out. Instead he leans forward and takes one of Sherlock’s hands in his, notices it’s still ice cold. Quickly moves to grip his wrist, notice that his pulse still hasn’t quite come down.

”What?” Sherlock asks, appears a bit bothered by the attention. John lets go of his hand.

”Yeah, sorry ’bout that. It’s just- I don’t think you should be by yourself tonight.”

”John, really-”

”You’ve been through a lot, and I think you might be in a bit of a shock. Your hands are cold as ice, your pulse is still high and you’re still trembling like a leaf.

”I’m fine, just fine. And perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” Sherlock adds, mumblingly, ”As I’ve done for quite some time now.”

”I know you are. And have.” John hesitates for a while, then unbuckles. ”Well, if you’re sure.”

”Quite.”

He should just let Sherlock be; of course he’s capable, and he realises he probably comes across as patronising. ”Call me if there’s anything I can do.”

As he gets ready to get out, a flood of memories from Afghanistan washes over him. He thinks about the many times he’s taken care of soldiers with these exact symptoms - the tremors, the chills, the unresponsiveness. Thinks about what he knows by heart - to never leave a person in shock unattended. _And this is not just anyone; it’s Sherlock._ Sherlock who has a vulnerability for psychosis and a history of drug dependance, and who just a few minutes ago asked John if he was real. From a distant past, he recalls Mycroft’s words about danger nights.

”No, I’m sorry Sherlock. I can’t. I realise that I’m popping up out from nowhere and all and I’m sorry, but I really, really don’t think you should be alone.” John realises he sounds worked up, tries to soften his voice. ”Please let me follow you home tonight.”

As he hears himself say it, another memory; of standing in Baker Street on his moving day, kissing Sherlock. He feels his cheeks get hot. ”I mean, obviously, I don’t mean-”

”I know what you mean,” Sherlock says so quickly he’s nearly stumbling on his words. ”Didn’t think you were suggesting-” And now it’s Sherlock’s turn to blush, John sees it before Sherlock turns away, looks out into the night.

”Alright then,” Sherlock sighs. ”If you must.”

***

Sherlock turns the lights on, proceeds to throw his coat over the sofa and then disappears into the kitchen, John can hear the tap running.

He stands in the doorway for a moment, taking it all in. It’s still Baker Street of course: the flat, the furniture, the scents. But…

”Christ,” he whispers to himself, begins to move through the room. Absolutely everywhere are stacks of paper - printed articles, journals, newspapers, magazines, books - most of them covered in thick layers of dust. There are clothes, scattered around, and just - stuff, things, all over the floor and the table and- John’s heart sinks deeper when he notices the used plates and mugs, also seemingly just left where they happened to be; must have been piling up for quite some time given the amount of them.

”If I’d known you were coming over, I obviously would have straightened up a bit.” Sherlock’s standing in the middle of the sitting room, a glass of water in his hand.

”Yeah, no worries,” John says. ”What does Mrs Hudson say about… all this?”

”She hasn’t been up here for some time now. Not since she had her hip replacement, I think, last year. Difficult with the stairs.”

”Right, forgot about the hip,” John said. Sherlock had told him over dinner - which seemed like forever ago, not just a couple of hours. John has not had any contact with Mrs H either, not for years, and now he wonders how he’d been able to so completely shut off the people he once cared for so immensely.

What he said in the car is true. It’s unreal to be standing there, in Baker Street, with Sherlock again. And at the same time, it’s like coming home. Like finally being able to exhale. He looks at Sherlock, this amazing man that John had the privilege of getting close to- and then losing it, once and then once again.

”Oh, right, forgive me,” Sherlock begins. ”Can I get you something? I'm afraid there’s not much to eat but, um. Some tea perhaps?”

”Thank you Sherlock, but I really didn’t come here for you to dance attendance on me.” John looks at Sherlock; he’s still pale, blue circles underneath his eyes.

”Tell you what. Why don’t you go take a hot shower, and I’ll make us a cuppa? I’m sure I can still find my way around here.” He expects Sherlock to object, but he doesn’t.

”If you’re quite sure,” he says, quietly, then turns to shuffle down the hallway. John hears the bathroom door close, and after a while, the toilet flush; then the high-pitched, squealing sound of the shower. The faucets seem to have gotten worse. I should fix that, John catches himself thinking before remembering that this is not his anymore.

John takes off his jacket, hangs it up, then takes another look around the room. Oh Sherlock. How did this happen? John gets that familiar twisting feeling in his stomach again.

He walks into the kitchen, then stops. Where to begin? The mess here is even worse; microscope and other equipment together with stuff and more stuff. _How did it get like this?_ John thinks about the house he shared with Mary, warm and thoughtfully decorated -by her, of course, maybe not exactly what he’d gone for but he’d liked it. Liked the comfort. Not much of that where he lives now.

The small two bedroom flat he’s been renting since February has no qualities of what he’d consider a home. It was a quick, convenient solution when they finally had decided to separate. Somewhere to sleep, basically. The only room he’s put some sort of effort into is Rosie’s room, and even that could have been done so much better. It’s just that it feels so… pointless.

”Right then,” he says. He opens the tap, lets the water run until it’s cold, while studying the contents of the sink. Picks up a mug, the underside sticks momentarily to the stainless steel. He moves to get the kettle, fills it, waits for the water to boil. The mugs feel like a sanitary hazard even after he’s washed them, so he uses some of the hot water to give them a final rinse. Finds the tea bags in the same place as they’ve always been, doesn’t even bother to look for milk as he’s very certain there won’t be any. Adds an unspeakable amount of sugar in Sherlock’s tea, then carries the mugs out to the sitting room - God, he could do this in his sleep. Knows this place by heart.

”Thank you John,” Sherlock says as he comes to plank himself down into the sofa, which John hastily cleared up before taking one of the corners - his usual one. Sherlock is dressed in a thick fleece dressing gown, flannel pyjama pants sticking out from beneath. His hair is still damp, and John breathes in the familiar scent, thinks that he’s never met anybody smelling as good as Sherlock - warm, clean, expensive.

Sherlock’s feet are sockless and before John can stop himself, he’s put a hand on one of them. ”God, you’re still cold as ice. Why didn’t you put some socks on?” He looks around, finds a discarded sweater, wraps it around Sherlock’s feet. ”There.” He looks at Sherlock again, feels a pinch of sadness in his chest.

”You’re not taking very good care of yourself, are you?” His hand moves back almost of its own accord, wraps around Sherlock’s cold toes beneath the fabric. Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind.

”Well. Neither are you,” Sherlock mumbles, takes a sip of his tea again. ”You’ve gained at least ten pounds. Too much booze, take out almost every night, and those jogs around the block are far too infrequent to do any difference.”

John smiles. “Mmm. I know. But you are-” He stops himself from finishing the sentence, and Sherlock doesn’t ask. _But you are more important._

John lets go of Sherlock’s feet, leans forward to pick up his mug again, sits back. ”What you did tonight, Sherlock. That was amazing.”

Sherlock’s tired eyes light up, a barely noticeable sparkle. ”You always say that.”

”Yeah,” John says. ”Because it’s always true. But you know, tonight.. What you did tonight. That was different.”

”I didn’t do that much. Mostly listened.”

”Yes. That’s what I mean. I saw you, before, going through all those accounts. I’m sure you know more about that kid now than he does himself, and yet. Not a single deduction.”

”Wasn’t necessary, he came around anyway,” Sherlock says. ”Anyone could have done what I did.”

John smiles, shakes his head. ”No, Sherlock. No, they couldn’t. What you did, is that you figured out what he needed. You listened, really listened. And you showed him respect, and decency, and.. and empathy, Sherlock. And you shared stuff about yourself, in front of all these strangers, things even I didn’t know about and- that can’t have been easy. But you did it because you-”

Unexpectedly, John’s voice cracks, a big lump forming in his throat, blocking any more words from coming out. He waits a moment.

”-because you genuinely cared.”

John clears his throat, finishes his tea. Didn’t plan to say all that. Sherlock is sitting still and quiet, blinking a bit too fast. Was a bit much, maybe, and it’s late and Sherlock has certainly had his emotional quota filled a long time ago this evening. ”Sorry,” John says. ”Didn’t mean to lay all that upon you.” John stands, grabs his mug as well as Sherlock’s. ”I think we’d better get some sleep now.”

Sherlock looks up at him. ”John,” he says, softly. ”Thank you. I’m, erm. Glad that you’re here.”

John smiles. ”My privilege, Sherlock. Listen. You get into bed and I’ll get you some water and a couple of Ibuprofen, might need them for when you wake up.”

***

A short moment later, John knocks once on the bedroom door that Sherlock has left slightly ajar. When there is no reply, he enters. The lamp on the nightstand is left on, spreading a soft glow in the room. To his relief, he notices that the bedroom looks a lot better than the rest of the place, not at all the same chaos there. Sherlock is tucked in under the covers, eyes closed, his breathing slow and heavy. John carefully puts the glass and the pills on the nightstand, then stands back for a while to just watch him sleep.

***

John lies down on the sofa under a blanket he’s found. Tries to sleep but is unable to, too many thoughts swirling around in his head. Eventually he gives up, and goes out into the small kitchen. Taking care to keep the noise down, John systematically goes to work.

***

As the first hint of daylight finds its way through the windows, John stops. He lets his eyes travel across the kitchen. Everything has been cleaned, dried and placed in its right place. The mess has been divided into two piles of keep and throw away, neatly stacked in a corner, John’s pretty sure he’s got everything right. He’s wiped down all the surfaces with the disinfectant he found in the cupboard, even swiped the floor. Pleased, he tip-toes in to use the loo, then goes to lie down in the sofa again. This time, sleep comes instantly.

***

”John. John!”

He forces his eyes open, momentarily unsure of where he is. Smiles when he sees Sherlock standing in front of him, dressing gown inside out, dark hair in a tremendous mess and sleep still in his eyes.

”Morning,” John mumbles, feels his heart sing. _Sherlock._ What would happen if he just grabbed him, pulled that warm body down on top of him in the sofa, that would be…

”John,” Sherlock says again. ”Wasn’t your interview at ten?”

John kicks the fantasies out of his mind. ”What time is it?”

”Nine thirty.”

John’s suddenly fully awake. ”Oh, bloody hell.”


	8. Chapter 8

After a mad five minute rush - which included John hurriedly coming out of the loo in just trousers to ask Sherlock if he could use his deodorant (still very attractive; 10,7 pounds and five years extra did not change that fact) - John’s out the door.

 _Thanks Sherlock, sorry about this, go back to sleep_ , he says before leaping down the stairs, three steps at a time, and then he’s gone, just like that. But before the heavy front door shuts, John is back, leans inside. Sherlock is still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, looking down from the top of the stairs.

”Can I bring lunch?” John speaks so quickly it takes Sherlock a little while to process what he’s saying.

”Um,” he says. ”Bring where?”

”Here, of course. When I’m done?”

”Sure. Yes,” is all he has time to say, and then John is on his way again. _Great!_ Sherlock hears before the door closes.

Sherlock walks into the kitchen, then stops abruptly. It’s - clean. It’s actually more than clean, it’s… It’s the way it hasn’t been for a very long time. Not since… John. He lets his hand brush along the worktop. It feels nice. Not sticky, not crumbly, not grimy. Looks like a proper kitchen again.

The room smells of Dettol disinfectant (lavender and orange), washing up liquid (apple), and John (too complex a scent to put into words). John who apparently still cares about Sherlock, enough to come with him, enough to stay up all night to clear up his mess. And enough to make it to his interview with two -no, probably just one, given the traffic situation at the last intersection this time of day- one minute to spare. In trousers that look like he’s been crawling around on the ground in them (because he did) and a wrinkly shirt that looks like he’s slept in it (because he has).

A little bubble of hope begins to form in Sherlock’s chest as he stands there, alone in his bordering-on-OCD-level of clean kitchen.

Doesn’t take long, though, for that feeling to shift into something else; heavier, darker. John will bring lunch, which obviously is a very nice turn of events, one in a long string since last night when they suddenly found themselves face to face on a crowded pavement. _But… then what?_ Sherlock has a train to catch later this evening, John’s leaving London tomorrow morning.

He slumps down on a (not grimy) kitchen chair, just sits there, thinking.

Worst case scenario: Five more years of not seeing John. Or more. Not that likely, Sherlock thinks, given how easy it turned out to be, being together again. Surely he wasn’t the only one feeling that. On the other hand… didn’t expect five years of silence the last time John left, either.

Second worse scenario: They see each other twice a year, at best, for stiff dinners where one’s supposed to engage in so called _catching up_. Which is another word for having a forced conversation, trying to be a part of each other’s lives when they both know that’s not true.

_So, how’ve you been, how’s everything, how’s Rosie, any good cases lately-_

No. They need _this_. They need time, a lot of time, spent together. If Sherlock has learned anything these past five years, it is that his work is not enough. Not anymore. Maybe never was, he just didn’t know it. Not before John, who came in and showed Sherlock the difference between making a living and having a life. _And he desperately wants it back._ Sherlock rubs his tired eyes, runs his fingers through his hair.

An idea begins to take form. _Could he?_ After thinking about it for a long while without getting anywhere, he gets up from the chair, frustrated because damnit, he doesn’t know how these things work! He goes into his bedroom to get his phone.

***  
”Hello gorgeous! To what do I owe the honour?” Her voice is warm, Sherlock relaxes a bit. He sits down on the edge of his unmade bed. It’s unusual for him to be the one who rings.

”I need your advice.” The words feel strange to say. Maybe that’s because he almost never does.

”You? Need my advice?” She laughs. ”Ooh la la, now I get it. Who’s the lucky guy?”

Sherlock sighs, audibly. ”You know who.”

It’s Irene’s turn to sigh, heavily into the phone. ”Oh darling. Here I was, getting my hopes up that you’d finally gotten your shit together and moved on. Are you going to wait your whole life for that little man? Is there really no-one else you could shift your attention to?”

 _No_ , Sherlock thinks. _There isn’t._

”I could hook you up if you want. Can think of plenty of hot candidates,” she says, teasingly.

”Mmm. No thanks,” Sherlock says. Maybe this was a bad idea. He considers just ending the call but then decides to push through the frustration and embarrassment. This is too important and, God help him, he needs the advice.

He explains the situation and his idea.

”Here’s what I would do,” Irene says dramatically, and Sherlock listens attentively. ”He’s coming back with lunch, yes?”

”Yes.”

”So when he does, you leave the door open. You call for him to come on in, say you’re in the bedroom. And when he comes there, he finds you, on your bed, completely naked - or maybe just wearing a scarf, John might very well be into some light bondage and-”

”Irene!” Sherlock cuts in, irritated now. ”I mean it! I need to know what to do!”

”Yes - and I was telling you.” She laughs again. ”Think it would work. But alright, if you’re going to be all British about it, fine. I think your idea is excellent.”

”You do?”

”Yes, Sherlock. I do. You’re not called a genius for nothing, eh.”

”But,” he says. ”But how do I do it? How do I… phrase it?”

”Darling. Don’t overthink it. This is not difficult, I promise. You just ask. And he will either say yes, and then that’s great, or he will say no.”

”Yes,” Sherlocks voice comes out almost as a whisper. ”And in that case-”

”In that case, sweetheart, at least you will know that you’ve tried. That’s all anyone can do.”

Sherlock feels himself disconnecting for a moment, considering.

”Sherlock? Don’t let this chance pass you by. I know you’re brave.”

***  
Sherlock gets dressed, chooses his outfit with care. Wants to look nice and relaxed, even though he’s anything but. It takes John longer than Sherlock was expecting, so he starts to wander around the flat, picking up things, trying to get it somewhat in order. It’s really gotten a bit out of hand lately, he thinks. Funny how he didn’t even notice before last night.

Finally, John shows up at the doorstep, his cheeks and nose red from walking in the icy rain. In his left hand he’s carrying a damp, brown paper bag, which Sherlock instantly identifies as coming from the sushi place around the corner.

”How was the interview?” Sherlock asks as he begins to put the plastic containers on the table. ”Did they think you were overdressed for the occasion?”

John laughs as he hangs his jacket on a hanger (neat, orderly), and Sherlock gets all warm inside. To hear John’s laugh again, it’s.. it’s..

”Ha. Nobody said anything, but I saw them looking at my trousers.” John looks down at the brown-black mud marks on his knees. ”No but I think it went well, actually. It’s, yeah. Pretty exciting.”

 _John_ , Sherlock thinks. _Maybe returning to London…_

They sit down across from one another, begin to eat.

”What about Rosie?” Sherlock asks. ”If you decide to accept.” He pokes around the food with his chop sticks, is not really hungry but decides to take a cucumber-avocado roll anyway.

”Haven’t gotten a formal offer yet,” John says. ”But that’s a good question. I have a feeling that Mary might be open to move back, as well.”

 _Together with John?_ Sherlock wonders anxiously, then decides that’s probably not what John meant. Living separately, but in the same city, then.

”And if not,” John continues, ”I’m actually considering keeping an overnight place in Bingham, then go back and forth for the weekends with her. I honestly don’t think I can stand it much longer, you know. It’s perfectly nice and all, but it’s just so… boring. The town, the people… my job at the clinic… I feel like I have one foot in the grave already.”

 _I could have told you that five years ago_ , Sherlock thinks, some of the old bitterness creeping up again. He pushes it away, no time for that now. Not now when everything is… right. More than right. He smiles. ”I can see how suburbia might get a bit… dull."

He notices John studying his face, thoughtfully. ”How are you feeling, now? Could you go back to sleep after I left?”

Sherlock thinks that he feels _bloody fantastic_ , sitting there in the (sparkling) kitchen, just John and him again, almost like no time has passed. ”I’m fine,” he says. ”Thank you again for, you know. Helping out. And for-” he gestures around the room, ”this. You didn’t have to do that.”

”Of course I didn’t,” John says, smiling gently. ”But I wanted to. I have to tell you, Sherlock, coming here, being here with you. If you don’t mind me saying- but it still feels like home.”

Sherlock can’t find the words to reply, so he doesn’t, but his heart feels light, the nervous fluttering aside. _Be brave_ , Irene had said.

”John,” he says, quickly before the courage fails him. ”As I said, I’m going to my parent’s house for Christmas. Leaving tonight. There will be all sorts of horrific things happening there, starting with their traditional little do before Midnight Mass. There will be relatives I haven’t seen for ages, including my crossdressing uncle, and Mycroft’s bringing his-” He stops himself, knows that he’s stalling. A nervous exhale. Restart.

”You said that Mary and Rosie are off to Spain for Christmas. So I was wondering-”  
He has to clear his throat, silently curses himself for being such a goddamned wimp.

”So I was wondering if perhaps you would like to come?”

 _There, he’s said it_. Doesn’t dare to look up to meet John’s eyes, waits for a reply but when one second has passed without John saying anything, he panics. ”Obviously, I completely understand if you can’t and, ha! Just a silly thought really, never mi-”

”I’d love to,” John says, smiling. Sherlock looks up, waits for a moment.

”…but..?”

John laughs. ”No but. I would love to, Sherlock, that would be.. great. If you don’t think your parents would mind?”

Sherlock feels so happy he could cry. But he doesn’t, fortunately. ”Good,” he says. ”Excellent.”

***  
John takes another salmon roll, and Sherlock’s thinking about what to say next, but then John speaks again.

”I have something tonight, a dinner I can’t really reschedule, and then I go back tomorrow to have a little Christmas thing with Mary and Rosie before they leave. It’s her first Christmas without us both… But maybe I could come on Christmas Eve, early afternoon?”

”Of course,” Sherlock replies, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that this is really happening. ”That’s perfect. I’ll pick you up at the station.”

”Thanks,” John smiles. ”I’m looking forward to it.” He puts another roll in his mouth and then covers it with his fist as he finishes chewing. ”But Sherlock, one question. There won’t be any sedatives in the punch this time? No… helicopter?”

Sherlock wonders which option John would prefer.  
”No,” he says. ”There won’t.”

”Good,” John says, chuckles. ”Just making sure.” He begins to collect the now empty food containers, stands up, puts them in the paper bag and goes to put it by the door. ”Oh, by the way,” he says, coming back into the kitchen again. ”What did you say about Mycroft?”

”What about him?”

”You were beginning to say something. That Mycroft’s bringing his…?”

”Oh, that.” Sherlock had already forgotten he’d brought it up. ”Yes, he’s bringing his.. his… his _fiancé_. Caroline.”

”Sorry, what?” John’s gaping, his eyes wide. ”His what? Mycroft is _engaged_?? How- how on earth did you miss to mention this at dinner last night? Or anytime, really?”

Sherlock raises one eyebrow. ”I try very, very hard to think about that as little as I possibly can.”

”God, I can’t wait to see this,” John says, eyes sparkling. And Sherlock thinks that for the first time in a long bloody while, he’s managed to do something right.


	9. Chapter 9

John goes from the hotel bathroom to the mirrored closet door, stands in front of it while he buttons his shirt. He’d meant to iron it but then chosen to crash on the bed for an hour instead, the events of last night and today taking their toll. His phone chimes, he goes to the desk to get it from the charger.

 _Out the door now, see you soon!!!!!!_ the message reads.

He’d been looking forward to this date for quite some time now. He’d never been particularly keen on those dating apps, but as it turns out, being a single dad in a small town is a very different animal from his old bachelor days in London.

One particularly lonely, boring Saturday night, alone in his new flat, he’d picked up his phone and begun to scroll. Sent a few messages just for the hell of it. And surprisingly, one of the two women who’d gotten back had turned out to be quite… interesting, really.

Her name was Rebecca, five years younger than him. Divorced but had no kids of her own; instead, she seemed to be absolutely dedicated to her work as a primary school teacher in one of the rougher parts of London. He’d liked the way she looked, first, but then found she had a clever, low key sense of humour and a real nice way of making him feel like he could be himself with her. They’d been trading messages almost every day for the last month now, and tonight, they’d meet for the first time. So it was odd, really, how he wasn’t able to muster any of the excitement he’d felt just the day before. Maybe it was just the lack of sleep.

***

Rebecca turns out to be very much like John had imagined. Over dinner, conversation had flowed easily, she had a bubbly laugh that was contagious, and John had been trying not to look too much at the nice way her light blue dress hugged in all the right places.

”You want to round off with a drink back at my place?”, she’d asked, and although his heart strangely enough wasn’t in it, he hadn’t really seen any logical reason to say no.

It was almost as if it had been decided beforehand, a shared, unspoken expectation. This was the way the evening was supposed to end. Just tired, he reminded himself as they began making their way to her flat.

***  
John’s sitting leaned back into her fluffy white sofa, amongst a mountain of throw pillows in soft colours, a glass of wine in his hand. He feels slightly buzzed even though he hasn’t had that much to drink; Rebecca seems to be a bit more tipsy. She’s inching closer and closer, giggles, keep touching his arm. He can feel the warmth of her body against his.

This is a dance John knows very well, knows what comes next. He puts a hand on her knee, rubs little circles, feels her silky stocking soft against his palm. She smiles, leans forward, her face so close to his. He meets her halfway, kisses her.

This is the first time he’s kissed someone other than Mary, ever since they started to date. _Not counting Sherlock, that is._

He’d kissed Sherlock, that day when they were moving. Had just left Mary, fuming, with Rosie and the movers and all the still not packed boxes, and jumped in a taxi to Baker Street. Actually, Sherlock had kissed him. Which had been a detail he’d desperately tried to wrap his head around all this time, not succeeding.

 _What had made Sherlock do that?_ During the years John lived at Baker Street, he had eventually made some sort of peace with the fact that Sherlock… _just didn’t feel things like that_.

Many times, too many, John had since allowed himself to get lost in fantasies about what might have happened if he hadn’t gathered his very last shred of self control, that day. It made for great masturbatory material, but, he’d discovered, always came with a price, in form of a wistful, heavy feeling in his chest afterwards. It is what it is, he’d tried to say to himself. _It is what it is._

This entire evening, his thoughts had returned to Sherlock, again and again. To see him again, to so completely unexpectedly get to spend so much time together… In a way, it had felt like no time had passed; like they had just been able to pick up exactly where they’d left off, right before Sherlock had jumped and everything had gone to hell.

 _What is he doing right now?_ John wonders, then remembers that Sherlock must already be at his parents’ house. Where John is about to go, too, in just a couple of days. Soon. He catches himself wishing he was there already.

Rebecca’s lips are soft, she tastes nice, smells good. There is absolutely nothing to complain about, so when he feels her hand on his thigh, moving upwards, he shifts, tries to prevent it. He’s not hard and he doesn’t know why the hell that is, and he certainly doesn’t want her to notice.

This has not happened John very often, and when it has, there has always been a perfectly reasonable explanation. Like being completely pissed, for instance. But now, shit. He can’t count how many times he’s had that conversation with patients, always reassuring them that it’s something that happens to every guy once in a while, perfectly normal.

Nothing at all to be ashamed of.  
_And yet he is._

His instinct is to get up, to get away from there. He wants to leave. He doesn’t want to sleep with her, but he also doesn’t want her to know about that, because - she’s a very nice, sweet, pretty woman and surely this is just some temporary lapse from his side.

He closes his eyes, tries to lose himself in the kisses. Tries to summon his usual, go-to images; from porn, from movies, from past occasions - the ones that always get him going.

Only problem is, what comes up now is Sherlock. John thinks about the way Sherlock was looking this morning, standing in front of the sofa with his tousled hair and untied dressing gown. _The way he’d wanted to pull him down on top of him, feel his body, warm from sleep, against his own, let his hands slide over that firm arse, grind into him-_

John tries to replace the image with something else but instead, the emerging panic just grows stronger in his chest.

”John?” Rebecca pulls back a bit, her hand still warm on his leg. ”Is everything.. alright?”

He feels his cheeks burn; this is not how it’s supposed to go! Goddamnit, he hasn’t gotten laid in forever, and now, with a beautiful and sweet woman next to him, obviously willing, he can’t.

He sighs. ”I’m so sorry, Rebecca. I honestly don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.”

He sees her blush and she sits back more, clasps her hands in her lap now.  
”I’m sorry if I-”

John cuts in. ”No, no,” he says, emphatically shaking his head. ”You are- I think you’re perfect. You’re.. very attractive, Rebecca, it’s just- I don’t know. I think I might just be tired, you know, the interview and all. I think you’re great, I really do.”

_He does, he really does, that’s the strangest part of it all._

”It can be difficult,” she says after a while. ”It took me quite a while to get over my ex-husband, even though I was the one who ended it.” A pause. ”…maybe you still have some feelings for your ex?”

He looks at her, thinks that she’s a really kind person.

”Yes,” he says. _Convenient explanation, if not completely accurate._ ”Yes, maybe. I was married to Mary for a long time, so yes, I suppose that might be-”

He sees her eyes flicker a little, she licks her lips. ”Oh, Right. I wasn’t thinking about your ex-wife, but…” She looks away, doesn’t say anything else.

John lifts his eyebrows. ”What? Then who-” and before he finishes, he understands.  
”Ah, no,” he says, tries to smile. ”Sherlock and I weren’t- erm. Not a couple.”

”I’m sorry,” she says. ”I just got that impression when you were…”

”When I was what?”

”When you were talking about him, over dinner tonight,” she says, smiling apologetically. ”I’m sorry that I misunderstood, hope you don’t take offence.”

””Course not,” he says. ”You’re not the first.”

***  
Waves of embarrassment about his failure this evening are mixing with a deep sense of relief to be on his way, alone. Walking back to his hotel room takes over an hour, but he needs to clear the mind a bit.

The moisture in his breath condenses to form puffs of smoke as it meets the chilly December air. The night sky is clear, and as he pauses at an intersection, he glances up at the bright stars, recalls another starry London night, an eternity ago.

Mary saved him from himself, back when they met. He’s not sure if he’d still been alive if he hadn’t met her. At the same time, he can’t help but wonder how things had turned out, otherwise, had he still been there when Sherlock came back.

Returning from Afghanistan, lonely and broken, he hadn’t had a life. After losing Sherlock, he didn’t even want one. Sherlock’s return from the dead had also been John’s.

There certainly had been a lot of time to think about things, during the two years he’d thought Sherlock was dead. He had oscillated daily between anger and despair, denial and acceptance. Had begged, pleaded - with God, with the universe, with whatever fucking possible - to let him go back in time, to fix things.

It had been a way of escaping the brutal intensity of his grief, back then. Again and again, he’d been thinking about it - _what would he do, if given such a chance?_

In the frustrating astuteness of hindsight, he knew. _There could be no one else in that space._  Because this much he’d learned: Sherlock Holmes lives means John Watson lives.

***

But then there had been Mary. And then there had been Rosie.

***  
When John is just a couple of blocks away from the hotel, he stops under a streetlight. There’s a text from Rebecca, he ignores it. Can wait until tomorrow. With fingers stiff from the icy cold, he starts to write.

_How are things back home?_

He puts the phone back in his coat pocket, but keeps his hand around it. When it chimes only a couple of seconds later, he immediately takes it out again.

_Hellish. SH_

John grins big as he stands on the pavement, hotel in sight now. But he needs to reply at once.

_SNAFU or FUBAR?_

Sherlock is just as fast with his reply.  
_Charlie Foxtrot. SH_

As John is about to type a reply, he sees Sherlock typing again.

_Which is my excuse for this. SH_

The next text follows immediately, John’s heart jumps a bit when he sees that Sherlock has sent an image as well. It’s of Sherlock, he's stretched out in bed. John has only seen Sherlock’s childhood bedroom once before, briefly, but recognises the foot board of the bed as well as the wall paper.

The photo is taken with the camera pointing down, so that he’s only visible from his chest down. John can’t stop looking, takes in all the small details. His feet are crossed at the ankles. He’s wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms in some sort of tartan pattern, grey slippers on his otherwise bare feet. Precariously placed between his knees is a wine glass, half full. His laptop is right next to him on the bed, screen saver with some sort of DNA spiral on apparently. On a small plate, also placed in his lap, is a rather large pile of what looks like an assortment of chocolate truffles, grapes and Brie cheese.

 _Doesn’t look that hellish to me_. He adds, _Wish I was there_ , but then quickly erases it again. Instead, he adds: _Maybe at least you’ll get a few Xmax gifts out of it?_

_Likely perm banned from Santa’s list. SH_

John finds himself smiling like a fool, as he stands there in the cold London winter night. He hopes his battery won’t suddenly quit on him.

 _Can’t imagine why_ , he writes, considers adding a smiling face but refrains. Sherlock doesn’t reply, no typing dots either. John keeps glancing at his phone the way back to the hotel, and then all the way up in the elevator. When he’s entered his little room, the phone finally chimes again.

_What about you, John? SH_

John wonders what he means. He sees Sherlock typing more again, waits.

_Naughty or nice? SH_

A little shiver of excitement runs through him, even though he knows that Sherlock in all likelihood does not mean it the way John’s just read it. Still… can’t he allow himself to dream a bit? Quickly, he replies.

_I can be either, according to preference._

He sees the typing bubble, appearing and disappearing, for almost five minutes. But no text comes. He begins to regret writing it, but then firmly decides not to dwell on it. He crawls in under the covers, falls asleep with a fluttering feeling inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some military slang for you, just in case.  
> SNAFU - Situation Normal, All Fucked Up  
> FUBAR - Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition (Repair/Reason)  
> Charlie Foxtrot - phonetic alphabet for C and F, which in turn stands for ClusterFuck - just a little nicer way of saying it :)


	10. Chapter 10

Halfway through the train ride, it finally starts to snow. John has since long given up the mystery novel he bought at the station, so now he’s just sitting there, looking out. Feathery light snowflakes are making wet trails on the window; a thin, white blanket forming over the fields and trees outside.

When the train is slowly coming into the station, he is one of only a handful of people to get up. The outdoor platform is more crowded, though, with lots of family and friends meeting up their loved ones. He makes his way through the crowd of hugging people and suitcases and shopping bags, looks around. He can’t see Sherlock anywhere, so he puts his duffel bag down on a bench at the end of the platform, decides to wait there. His phone shows no messages, probably Sherlock will be there soon. John’s stomach does a funny little flip at the thought of seeing him again. He’s not been able to think about much else for the last couple of days.

The crowd is beginning to disperse, and soon there’s only John and a woman left. He looks at her, shoots her a smile and gets a polite little nod in return. She’s beautiful. Seems to be in her early fifties; tall, slender. Blonde, shiny hair cut just above her shoulders. Everything about her radiates elegance, he thinks. She’s dressed in an long coat, it looks soft. _Camel_ , John remembers that Mary used to call that particular colour.

As Sherlock has taught him, he steals a glance at her shoes. _You can always learn a lot by someone’s shoes, John._ They’re dark brown with some sort of fur lining, but he honestly doesn’t have the faintest idea of what else to make of that. Sherlock would of course have been able to deduce her entire life story from them. John gets.. a bit fuzzy inside, when he thinks about it. _Soon._

When ten more minutes have passed, he and the blonde woman happen to pick up their phones at the exact same time. He laughs a little, she does as well.

”Are you left waiting, too?” he asks.

”Alas.” She takes a few steps towards him. ”Although I can’t say I’m surprised. My partner’s younger brother apparently won the battle about who gets to drive the car this time.” Her accent is frighteningly similar to the Queen’s, confirming John’s observations.

”Ah,” John laughs. ”I take it the brother is not the most punctual one, th-” He stops mid sentence. ”Um. Is your partner’s name by any chance Mycroft?”

She looks a bit taken aback, laughs again. ”Yes! How on earth did you know?”

At the other side of the road, a large, green Range Rover comes speeding in to the fortunately empty car park, then stops so abruptly that the brakes screech, leaving black marks in the new snow. Someone jumps out and John sees the familiar mop of dark hair, but has to take a second look since he’s not wearing his coat, but some sort of… lumber jacket, checkered in yellow and black. But it’s Sherlock, alright. John raises a hand, waves, then turns toward the blonde woman again.

”I believe we’re going in the same direction.” He takes off his glove, reaches out his hand. ”I’m John Watson, pleased to meet you.”

***  
”Hello, darling!” the blonde woman exclaims as they meet Sherlock, halfway to the car.

”Caroline, lovely as always,” Sherlock replies, kisses her on both cheeks, casts a quick glance and sees that John already is carrying her bag.

Then there’s an awkward moment where John’s unsure about how to greet Sherlock, but it’s sorted when Sherlock reaches out his hand. ”John,” he says, and John wonders if maybe, just maybe, Sherlock is a little nervous as well.

***  
In the car ride to the house, John is quiet, mostly because there is no chance to cut in. He’s in the back seat, leaning forward to listen to Sherlock and Caroline talking non-stop in about equal measure. They seem to know each other fairly well, John can see that Sherlock is not putting on an act with her, but is just being himself. For good… and for bad.

”I can’t see why you haven’t chucked him by now,” Sherlock scoffs. ”What is it now, three years wasted? You are not a complete idiot, and there’s nothing too offensive about the way you look. My brother, on the other hand-”

”Do shut up, Sherlock.” Caroline slaps him lightly on the arm.

”Careful, I’m driving!” Sherlock yells, but John can see in the rear view mirror that the corners of his mouth are pulled up, eyes shining. It makes John smile, too. Oh how he’s missed him.

”Well, if one can call it that. You are clearly doing something, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say driving, darling. We’ll be lucky if we make it to the house in one piece.”

”Or not lucky,” Sherlock replies. ”I don’t know which option would be best, at this point. The entire place is chaos. Mummy’s mad because Daddy still hasn’t prepped the turkey for tomorrow, the house is still a complete mess, Uncle Rudy needs help every thirty minutes or so to use the loo, and the guests are coming in about an hour.”

Caroline turns to look at John. ”What do you say John, should we leg it? There’s still time.”

John laughs. ”Actually, I think it’s beginning to sound like Christmas.”

***  
It only takes John about ten seconds to realise that Sherlock, for once, wasn’t exaggerating. It is chaos. Mycroft is the first one who comes to meet them in the hallway. John winces a little as Mycroft kisses Caroline on the mouth, just a small peck but yet, a sight he’d never thought he’d see.

Then Mycroft turns to Sherlock, who is still outside the door stomping off the snow from his shoes.

”You’re on Uncle Rudy-watch for the rest of the evening, little brother.”

”No!” is all Sherlock has time to say before Mycroft is disappearing with Caroline and her bag up the stairs. ”Oh God help me,” John hears Sherlock mutter as he comes in to take off his jacket.

”I like your new coat,” John smiles. ”A bit more… relaxed than the other one.”

”Very funny,” Sherlock says with a smirk. ”Mummy hid my coat somewhere and I haven’t had a chance to look for it. She says it’s too thin for this weather and that I’ll catch my death in it. One would think that after forty, one would be trusted to dress oneself.” He sighs dramatically.

”John! How lovely to see you again!” Sherlock’s mum comes out in the hall, wipes her hands at her apron, then gives him a big hug. He takes out the gift bag he’s brought, containing two bottles of Champagne and a large box of Prestat chocolate.

”Oh goodness, John, how lovely of you! You shouldn’t have - thank you, dear!”

”No John, you really shouldn’t have,” Sherlock mumbles behind them. ”Pearls before swine, etcetera.”

Mrs Holmes replies without looking at him. ”Sherlock, stop muttering and go check on your uncle, will you. I think he needs some help again.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes but to John’s surprise he doesn’t say anything, but begins to walk out to the sitting room.

”John, you’ll have to excuse the rush, but the guests will be here any minute.”

”I’d be happy to help out, just say what,” he says. ”Where can I put my bag?”

”Yes, about that, John-” She lowers her voice. ”Can I have a quick word with you, if you don’t mind?”

”Of course,” he says. What is this is all about? She gestures to him to follow her into the small laundry room just next to the hallway, where she stops, looking at him sternly.

”John, listen,” she says. I just want you to know how glad we are to have you back by Sherlock’s side. After you left, he just… you know. Wasn’t the same. And now that you are back, I just wanted to say that I hope, this time, we can all be… open with each other.”

”Umm, yes, ’course,” John says, still not having a clue of what she’s talking about.

”Good,” she says, then hushes her voice even more. ”I don’t know why Sherlock finds it so difficult, with us. Daddy and I, I mean.”

”Uh huh.” It’s the only thing he can think of to say, since he’s still not following.

”Earlier today, he was going on and on about how he insisted you get the spare room. And I told him that I would not hear any of it, because really, John. Can I be frank with you?”

”Sure.”

”I will not stand for any more of this hiding and sneaking about. Not in my house, not in this day and age. We’re all old enough to be well past that, don’t you think?”

Ah. Now he sees where this is going. And he _really_ wants this conversation to end. Where the hell is Sherlock when he needs him?

” _Absolutely_ ,” he says emphatically. ”It’s just that- we- we’re not actually-”

”John! Please,” she interrupts him firmly. ”Let’s be adults now.”

”Yes, of course,” he says, wondering how he can get out of this. ”I absolutely agree, but Sherlock and I are not-”

”Listen, John,” she says. ”You should be proud of yourself. Some people live their whole life in denial. Better late than never, that’s what I always say.”

He really doesn’t know what else to say, and Mrs Holmes seems to take his silence as a quiet understanding. She smiles, warmly.

”Thank you John. I’m so glad we had this talk.” She pats him on the arm. ”Now, go settle in, you’ve had a long trip. Then I would be eternally grateful for some help with the hors d’oeuvres.”

When she’s left, John stands there to gather his composure, exhales slowly through the nose. After a moment, he goes up the stairs to find Sherlock’s old bedroom. He wishes he could stay to have a closer look around, but it will have to wait. He puts his bag down by the foot board of the bed, then hurries back down to the kitchen.

”Tell me how you want the shrimps.”


	11. Chapter 11

There are so many people, the entire house is packed and Sherlock absolutely hates it. It’s too loud - the chatter, the horrendous Christmas music in the background, the idiotic laughter; it’s all just too much, _he can’t think_.

Everywhere, groups of guests talking over each other about boring, trivial things, and when they try to make him participate, he doesn’t know what to say. He feels like covering his ears with his hands, scream at the top of his lungs, tell them to just SHUT THE FUCK UP.

He doesn’t, of course. Instead, tries to go as much unnoticed as he can. Hides in corners, hides in the kitchen. When he couldn’t locate John, he hid for thirty minutes up in his old room. He sat on his bed, looking at John’s bag, feeling equal parts excited and embarrassed over the fact that his family are assuming things that are not true. Also embarrassed about the fact that he wishes they were. Pathetic. Should be able to settle for at least having John back as his friend.

This is the first time in many years that he’s here for the Christmas Eve madness. Has usually shunned it like the plague, but this year, it was difficult to refuse, what with Daddy’s coronary bypass last summer and all. Time’s running out, he knows it. Tries his best not to think about that so much, it’s just the way life goes. Still, chose to come, this year.

And despite all the things he can’t stand, this time is different. Returning to the sitting room, he looks around for John. Finds him cornered by a distant aunt that Sherlock has forgotten the name of. Edna? Alma? Never mind. John’s here, _with him_. That fact makes Sherlock stand up taller. John, who is a genius with people and who knows how to do these things, the small talk and mingling things. Is there because of Sherlock.

It makes him feel… not alone. Makes him feel like someone who is worth something. John’s here with him. And this time, there’s no Mary, and no other stupid girlfriend either for that matter. Although-

A new spike of worry shoots though his chest when he thinks about this again, for the hundredth time since it happened. Because he’s almost certain John was on a date, two days ago. He deduced it from the texts John sent, together with what he didn’t say when he mentioned his evening plans for that day.

On the plus side: the time he sent them. Means he went home alone, so no sex then, at least not that night. But- Sherlock tries to stop his mind from running with this and make it worse - _but it seems like the date was with a woman John quite liked_.

 _No_. This cannot be allowed to happen, not now, not after five bloody years of being apart. Sherlock takes a deep breath, steels himself, then goes up to John and the people who are now talking to him. When he approaches, John looks up at him, shoots him a big smile, then comes up to stand right next to him even though he’s still engaged in some dreadful conversation. Sherlock’s shoulders drop slightly. Not alone.

”Well actually,” John says to the aunt, ”physical activity can often be the best medicine for arthritis pain. But the effects won’t come overnight, I’m afraid. You need to try to stick with it, find a routine that works for you.”

 _Kind, wonderful John_. It’s amazing, the way he’s able to put up with this, Sherlock thinks. For a while, Sherlock just stands there, admiring. Basking in the pride of being the one John is there with.

But then John’s phone rings. Sherlock tries really hard to see the screen but the angle is wrong.

”I’m so sorry, but I’d better get this,” John says, excuses himself from he little group and begins to walk out of the room.

His first impulse is to follow, but no, John doesn’t seem to expect him to, so Sherlock stays and there’s possibly someone trying to ask him something but he ignores it completely. He needs to know what John says; sees him swiping to reply as he keeps moving through the crowded room.

” _Hi there, beautiful_ ,” is all he manages to catch before John is out of the room, and Sherlock’s heart is sinking in dark, muddy water again.

***  
An eternity later, the guests have finally cleared, the left over food has been put away and they have made the fifteen minute drive to the grey stone church where Midnight Mass is held. Daddy and Caroline are staying home with Uncle Rudy, which is a relief in many different ways.

The path leading from the iron gates and up to the church has been cleared from snow and sprinkled with gravel. It is illuminated by lanterns, casting a flickering glow in the dark night. John is walking by his side, Mummy and Mycroft right in front of them, along with a large group of other visitors slowly making their way forward.

”I’m so happy to get to do this with both of my boys present this year,” Mummy says, looking over her shoulder. She turns to John. ”We took them here for Christmas Mass, for so many years. And Sherlock is practically raised in this church.”

”What are you on about?” he says, but Mummy just keeps babbling.

”He had his violin lessons here, you know, and then there was-”

Maybe she isn’t completely senile yet, because she stops herself, possibly because she managed to notice Sherlock’s angry stare. ”What about your family, John? Did you have any Christmas traditions?”

Sherlock winces but John, being John, answers straightforwardly. ”Well, not unless you count the fine tradition of my dad getting absolutely pissed and passing out on the sofa at nine.”

”Oh, I’m sorry John, I shouldn’t have asked-” she says, but John just shrugs, smiles.

”No worries. It’s just the way it was.”

***  
Sherlock was not at all prepared for how hard it would hit him.

As he steps over that worn oak threshold and onto the large sandstone paving stones in the pavilion, a veritable onslaught of memories come crashing over him. He hasn’t been here for almost ten years, but the scents that flood him now - of the cold, damp stone building, of the burning wax candles, of the antique wooden benches and the pine soap used to clean them - it very nearly makes his knees weak.

It’s memories of times long gone - forgotten or, in some cases, deleted. Memories of the young boy he once was; usually seems like a lifetime ago but tonight, now, it’s so close he could touch it.

They sit down on the third row from the altar. Mummy’s to his left, John is to his right and they’re sitting so close that John’s thigh is pressing into his own. He needs to distract himself from that sensation, otherwise this will not go well.

Instead, Sherlock looks around, takes it all in again, after all this time - the bright colours of the stained windows; the elaborate patterns of the two large silver candlesticks on the altar; the white linen, the gold, the psalm books in front of them; the hymn board with its shiny mahogany frame.

He notices John, quietly watching him, a thoughtful look in his eyes, and tries to come back to the present in order to act a bit _normal_ , for once.

”You know the drill?” he asks in a hushed voice, and John nods.

”Yeah, I think so. Barely,” he mumbles back.

”Don’t feel you have to bother. It’s all just.. meaningless traditions, made up by ignorant people who needed something to cling to,” he says, because, a) he wants John to not feel out of place, and b) it’s what he really thinks.

But when the church organ very suddenly blasts out the first notes of _Adeste Fideles_ , so loud he feels the sound wave impact his chest, Sherlock’s vision goes temporarily blurry.

For a brief moment, the music is drowned by the scraping sounds of people rising in the benches around him. He stands, shuts his eyes and lets the music carry him far back in time and place.

Around him, a hundred voices begin to sing.

 _O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant!_  
_O come ye, o come ye to Bethlehem_  
_Come and behold Him_  
_Born the King of Angels_  
_O come, let us adore Him_  
_O come, let us adore Him_  
_O come, let us adore Him_  
_Christ the Lord!_

***  
As they stroll back to the car, the midnight sky above them clear and starry, he notices how John is still regarding him with that strange, wondering expression that Sherlock really can’t make sense of.

”What?” he asks eventually, not being able to stand it any longer.

”Nothing,” John says and Sherlock raises his brows questioningly until John speaks again.

”I was just thinking… I noticed. You knew every single word, all of it. Every song, every prayer.”

It’s like he was just caught with something shameful, but, then again, what can he say?

”Well. Yes. I do.”

”Didn’t you know, John?” It’s Mummy, naturally overhearing every bloody thing. ”Sherlock used to sing in the choir. Did for many years. That’s how we started to come here.”

”You did?” John says. ”In the boys’ choir? Really?”

”Yes.” For a moment, Sherlock just looks down. He desperately tries to think of something funny to say, in order to preempt the humiliation surely about to come. But John doesn’t laugh. Instead, he just keeps looking at Sherlock with those soft eyes. _Strange._

”God, I wish I could have seen you,” John says, quietly. ”You must have been adorable.”

 _Adorable?_ Is this a joke? This entire conversation needs to stop, right now.

”I assure you, you didn’t miss out.”

”Actually John, you would probably have found it highly entertaining,” Mycroft suddenly pipes up. ”I certainly did. That long white dress really suited you, Sherlock, especially together with that funny collar that went all the way up to your ears. Like a little doll.”

”Shut up Mycroft!” he shoots back, angry now. ”At least I weren’t too fat to fit in my school uniform.”

”Boys, stop it!” Mummy is looking angrily first at him, then at Mycroft. Then she seems to calm down again, turns to John.

”You know, he absolutely was the most precious little boy,” Mummy very helpfully chips in. ”Just as he is today.”

And Sherlock thinks that it very possibly was a terrible idea, bringing John here over Christmas.

***  
The house is wrapped in silence when they get back. It’s close to one o’clock and thankfully, both Mummy and Mycroft quickly scurries off to their respective bedrooms. But that leaves just him and John, standing in the kitchen and Sherlock can’t think of a single thing to say that won’t sound like some sort of innuendo. _Want to go to bed? Should we go upstairs?_

 _Oh God._ He still hasn’t even acknowledged the fact that John is being forced to share his room, cringes at the thought that maybe John thinks it’s some sort of set up.

But he needs to say something, because John clearly is not going to. ”Time to sleep?” he eventually settles on, tries his best to look… neutral.

”If you wish,” John says with his usual good humour.

 _You have no idea what I wish_ , Sherlock thinks as John follows him up the stairs towards his bedroom.

***  
When John is in the loo getting ready, Sherlock hurries to change into his pyjamas, turns the lights out but then changes his mind and quickly flicks it on again. When John comes back, dressed in pyjama pants and a grey t-shirt, Sherlock has just managed to flop down on the roll-out mattress he got from the storage closet in the upstairs hallway. He sees the surprised look at John’s face, but before he has the chance to say anything, Sherlock promptly turns off the light, the room turning almost pitch black.

”Goodnight,” he says, pulls the blanket up to his nose.

”Um,” John says into the darkness, and Sherlock quells a sigh. _Why oh why do they need to have this conversation?_ ”I really think that I should be the one on the floor. Seems wrong to kick you out of your bed on Christmas Eve and all.”

”It’s not Christmas Eve anymore, it’s half past one,” Sherlock says, then realises that maybe that was not the main point John was making. ”And I’m fine here. You, on the other hand, wouldn’t be, not with that shoulder of yours. Goodnight.”

He hopes that will do the trick. He hears John hesitating, but then finally, thankfully crawling into the bed. ”Alright,” he says. ”Goodnight, Sherlock.”

***  
They lie in silence for a while, Sherlock can hear that John is pretending to sleep, and he’s doing the same thing himself. It’s too intimate, he cannot possibly sleep when John is so close that Sherlock could just reach up an arm to touch him.

”Do you remember the night we spent in that barn? On the stake out, in Essex?” John asks out into the darkness.

Sherlock smiles. ”How could I possibly forget? We both fell asleep in hay full of manure. The stench of cows stayed in my hair for weeks after.”

”Yes, I remember that, too,” John says, his voice smiling.

”You remember that my hair smelled like cow?”

”Actually, yes, I do. You made me go to some posh salon in Kensington to get you that one hundred quid bottle of coconut shampoo.”

”It was leave-in conditioner, John. Do keep up.”

John chuckles. ”Whatever. But you know what was worse?”

”Wait,” Sherlock says. ”Um. Let me guess. Dartmoor?”

”Ha!” John says. ”Yeah, that night was pretty bad, too. But I was thinking about the time we got locked inside the cold storage room in Soho. Still glad I didn’t lose my toes.”

”It’s no big deal to lose a few toes. Fingers, on the other hand-”

”Fingers on the other hand? What about the fingers on this hand?” John interrupts, Sherlock can hear how pleased he is with his bad joke.

”What about this finger, John, it’s for you,” Sherlock says and holds up his left arm, the one closest to the bed, middle finger pointing up. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness now, so he figures John can probably see the gesture.

Turns out he could. John’s giggling into the pillow, and as always, it makes Sherlock light up inside. Soon they’re both laughing, and maybe it’s just that they’re both fairly tired because it wasn’t even that funny, but neither of them can stop. Eventually, Sherlock wipes tears from underneath his eyes, exhales shakily. ”Oh dear Lord,” he says.

”You can call me John.” This makes Sherlock begin to giggle again, his stomach aches.

”Hey,” John says, and it’s in a different tone now; still happy but more serious. ”My point was. Seeing that we’ve spent a large number of nights together, in various and less than optimal locations. Perhaps it wouldn’t be that difficult to share this bed for a couple of nights? There’s plenty of room for both of us.”

Sherlock’s mind freezes.

”I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but that mattress looks ancient,” John adds.

”It is,” he replies. ”I think it might be filled with straw,” and that makes John huff silent laughter through his nose again.

”Come here, then,” he says, scooting in against the wall, Sherlock can see him folding down the duvet.

This really isn’t a good idea, Sherlock is certain of that. Lots and lots of things that could go wrong, including but not limited to the fact that he won’t be able to get a moment’s sleep lying right next to John in a bed. But it’s difficult to refuse - because John is presenting rational arguments, yes, but mostly… because he so badly wants to. _God help him._

”Don’t be ridiculous,” John says.

And despite all better judgement, Sherlock gets up from the floor, then carefully gets in the bed. He places himself on the very far edge, facing out the room, away from John.

”Good,” John says. ”Now maybe both of us can get some shut eye. I’m knackered.”

”Mmm,” Sherlock replies. He hopes John can’t feel through the mattress how hard his heart is beating.

”Besides, we don’t want to disappoint your mum,” John snickers.

Sherlock’s face goes burning hot, he’s glad John can’t see it. His very first thought is that John’s mocking him, but as usual, he tries to remind himself that John’s not.. like that. So why, then, why bring it up when- _oh_. It dawns on him. The thought of the two of them, together - as in, _together_ \- it’s so far fetched it doesn’t even cross John’s mind. That’s why it’s easy for him to joke about. Sherlock tries to swallow down the humiliation he knows John didn’t intend to make him feel.

”Right,” he says. ”Sorry about that. She was impossible to reason with.”

”Yeah, I noticed,” John says. Sherlock gets the feeling he’s about to say something else, something more serious, but thankfully he doesn’t. They’re quiet, for a while, Sherlock tries to force his breathing into a normal rate.

”Thanks for tonight, Sherlock.” John’s voice is soft again. Sincere, actually. ”I’m so glad you invited me.”

”Of course,” Sherlock mumbles. More silence, then John, again.

”Sherlock?”

”Yes?”

”I’m sorry.”

”For what?” Sherlock manages to get out, fairly calmly, even though on the inside, he’s balancing between panic and happiness.

”For everything. For not getting in touch. For the way I left. For, um. What I did, before-” John stops and a long stretch of silence follows, since Sherlock really can’t form a proper reply. Images pop up in his mind, scattered memories of being high as a kite. Of John, kicking him. Of- he squeezes his eyes shut, tries to push them away. Yes, he has wanted this apology. It’s welcome, even though he’s not able to say so. Not able to say anything, really.

”I’ve missed you. Don’t think I’ve realised how much, until now,” John says, just a little louder than a whisper.

For a brief moment, Sherlock gets the strong sense that John is about to touch him - maybe put a hand on his shoulder, or his hair. The seconds feel like they’re stretching to minutes. Then, the moment passes. _Stupid of him, stupid to allow his imagination to run amok like that._

Maybe he should say something.

”Likewise,” he mumbles. And after that, he just lies awake for a long, long time.


	12. Chapter 12

At some unknown point during the night, John stirs. He’s drifting in that strange place between sleep and wakefulness, faintly aware of the compact darkness both outside the window and in the room. His entire body is lit up with a strong, tingling arousal; an urgent wish for _more_ and _closer_. His left arm is tightly wrapped around the pliant body next to him, he scoots tighter, feels a warm hand touch his arm. The heat, the softness of two sleepy bodies moving against each other; _it’s so good_. He sighs, it comes out shakily.

His eyes are closed, he’s completely lost in the physical sensations - of movement; of warmth, of unhurried, sleepy touch. _More_. He needs more. He presses his hips against the heavy leg that is wedged between his, moves to increase the friction against his aching erection.

 _Yes. There, just like that_. They fall into a soft, gentle rhythm, moving against each other in synchrony. His hand is trailing down the slope of a strong back, then further down… the soft feel of flannel and, oh Christ. _Irresistible_. John wants to slide his hand in underneath, wants to feel bare skin against his palm and- _Wait_.

Suddenly, John is wide awake. His entire body goes stiff. A second later, shame is washing over him like a bucket of cold water. _Oh God_.

For a moment, he lies absolutely still. Doesn’t even dare to breathe. Can’t gather the courage to open his eyes to look at Sherlock, either. _Please, please, please let him be asleep_ , oh God what has he done-

Then, Sherlock moves. _Fuck_. He feels him slowly, quietly disentangling himself from John’s legs, John’s arm around him.

John can barely think about what Sherlock might make of this, because… Sherlock _just doesn’t do_ things like this. And now, without intending to, John has somehow imposed himself upon him in his sleep, and _oh God_. He feels his face burn. _Pretend to sleep_. Yes, that’s what he’ll do. Probably the best way out of this. He’ll just pretend to be still asleep, and tomorrow, he won’t say a word about it, and in all likelihood, neither will Sherlock. Just an accident. If he’s really lucky, perhaps Sherlock didn’t even notice that he was hard.

The mattress shifts when Sherlock leaves the bed. John opens his eyes just a tiny bit, and sees a glimpse of Sherlock, walking very quietly out of the room. When John hears the hallway toilet door creak, he finally dares to exhale.

The rush of adrenaline has woken him up completely, and now he lies there, staring up into the ceiling, trying to sort out the thoughts in his head. In the pit of his stomach, that familiar, heavy weight has returned.

He’d felt so happy, tonight. Can’t even remember the last time he was laughing that much. Standing by Sherlock’s side again is - it’s like it is where he’s meant to be. Being next to Sherlock is like coming back to life, he thinks, then fleetingly wonders if he’s being melodramatic. Mary would often say that he was. _Overreacting_. Made too big a deal of thing, exaggerated. Expected too much of a relationship, of life. _A romantic_. That was what Sherlock had called him, too, but without the vicious edge that Mary’s voice had carried.

A relationship with Sherlock… it’s not like the thought hasn’t crossed his mind. _Of course it has_. They _were_ in a relationship, way back then, he just didn’t realise at the time. Because it had been a relationship completely without sex, or even any sort of physical closeness.

Sexuality was such a major part of his identity, anyone who knew him could testify to that. _Three Continents Watson_.. that was what his mates in the army had begun to call him, after a while. He’d acted like he hated it, would never in a million years have admitted that it actually had made him secretly proud.

So a committed relationship without sex - that, John just hadn’t been able to even consider. But in retrospect, a great many times, he had wished he just could have… _settled_.

A thought occurs: Maybe that is still an option? His heart lifts a bit at the idea. _Perhaps there is a way forward, after all?_

What they have just done.. even if he’s resisting to think it, deep down he knows. He really does. This - _that_ \- is not something he can ever expect from Sherlock. Sherlock’s… _different_. He doesn’t feel things like that. This, and that kiss a hundred years ago; it was just freak occurrences, one fuelled by pain, one by sleep.

But John is pretty sure, now, that Sherlock needs him. Just as much as John needs him, only in a slightly different way. Because together, they’re invincible. Separate, they’re both lost, each in his own way.

***  
Sherlock takes his time and John wonders anxiously if maybe he’s decided to sleep somewhere else. But then he hears footsteps coming closer, and he hurries to turn around, face the wall, tries to school his breathing into the slow, heavy rhythm of sleep. The door shuts close, the mattress shifts again as Sherlock very quietly gets back in.

And John thinks that he'll _never utter a single word_ about this. He pretends to sleep, until he eventually does.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock stands, bracing his hands on each side of the sink. He’s shaking, his breath ragged and quick. He looks up into the mirror in front of him, sees a pale face with flushed cheeks, eyes wild, bordering on crazy.

 _Dear God, what’s just happened?_ He woke up clinging to John, it was already too late, no way he could have stopped himself. John was grinding into him and Sherlock responded, pushed his leg up against him and- _Oh fuck_.

This, he thinks, may very possibly be what puts an end to all hope of getting John back into his life again. Because John is _not gay_ , and this, well. _Was_.

He _knows_ that this wasn’t about him. Was about someone else, some woman in John’s imagination - _stupid, hopeless_ \- and yet. _And yet he can’t stop himself from desperately wishing it were different._

He’s still so hard it hurts. He turns on the tap to drown out the sound, then pushes his pyjama pants down to his thighs. With his chin lowered, resting against his chest, he takes himself in hand, sets a furious pace. Recalls how John’s cock felt against his leg… A shiver shoots down his spine.

He imagines a different scenario, one in which John actually wanted _him_. In which John would have awakened and not turned into ice, but instead, opened his eyes and given him a sleepy smile. Whispered, affectionately, _Sherlock_ … And Sherlock would have reached down, closed his fist around John’s erection-

Or maybe he’d just crawled down under the duvet, kissed his way along John’s body, pushed his pants aside and swallowed him down. Sucked him languidly, because there had been no rush. The taste of John on his tongue…

Sherlock quickens the pace, the wet slapping sound audible despite the running water and the screeching old pipes, but it can’t be helped, he needs release.

He imagines John, how he would look, the sounds he’d make. How John would surely praise him, say _You’re amazing_ , and _Perfect_ , and _Just like that_ , before losing control, coming right down Sherlock’s throat and-

When Sherlock comes, he holds up his other hand to catch the ejaculate, bites his lower lip hard to keep himself quiet. His entire body is trembling. He tries to calm his pounding heart, tries to catch his breath. Avoids to look into the mirror. Washes his hands carefully, then pulls up his pyjama pants. He sits down on the toilet lid for a moment, covers his face with his hands.

***  
When he wakes up next time, it’s morning, just past eight. He can hear John’s asleep but doesn’t allow himself to look at him before he gets up. What happened in the early morning hours already feels unreal, like a dream. _Maybe that’s the best way to think about it, too_. Second best alternative, if not thinking about it at all turns out to be impossible.

He showers, shaves, moisturises. The _perfum_ from Hermès is a fairly new favourite. Manages for once to get his hair in perfect order, the wax he picked up at his hair dresser last time leaves a nice shine. Trims his eyebrows, files down the rough edges on his finger nails. Buttons his white shirt, attaches the heavy, golden cuff links his grandpa left him. Ties his black shoes.

***

"Merry Christmas Sherlock,” Daddy greets him as he walks into the kitchen. ”Don’t you look nice today.”

Everything is already in order, this breakfast has always been one of Daddy’s proudest moments as far as home making and traditions go. The usual things on the table, with scrambled eggs, sausages and bacon still on the cooker to keep hot.

Sherlock nicks a piece of fresh pineapple, pops it into his mouth and then finds what he was looking for. Important now to avoid getting caught in some dreary conversation about the weather (snowy, sunny) or the news (state of things: from bad to worse). Quickly, he grabs two flutes of Buck’s Fizz from the tray. ”Merry Christmas, Daddy,” he says before hurrying out of the kitchen and making his way up the stairs again.

***

In front of the bedroom door, he hesitates. Listens for a moment, deduces that at least, John is up and dressed.

_And into character._

John is standing in the middle of the room. Nicely dressed, shirt pressed, the creases from the folding (military precision) just barely noticeable. In his right hand, now slack by his side, he’s holding his phone. Was in the middle of texting, put it down the second he heard Sherlock coming.

”Good morning,” Sherlock says, trying his outmost to appear… _chipper_. Confident, relaxed.  
Nothing happened, just a dream-

John looks at him; up, down, up again. Appears surprised - embarrassed? Sherlock will not let himself be dragged into it.

”And Merry Christmas.” He grins big, teeth showing. John widens his eyes, just for a millisecond but Sherlock still sees it. The grin maybe a bit much? Tries to turn it down a notch.

”Compliments of the kitchen.” He offers one of the champagne flutes to John.

”Um? Thanks, I, er-” John takes the glass but then just stands there. Looks like he doesn’t quite know how to act. Possibly trying hard to conceal the fact that he wasn’t sleeping - not the entire time - Sherlock could hear his pulse and respiration change at the exact point on which he woke up.

Sherlock steels himself. Schools his face into what he hopes looks like a non-crazy smile. ”Might as well start now. It’s going to be a long day.”

***  
The champagne helped, _doesn’t it always_ , Sherlock thinks as he gets up from the breakfast table. Took the tense edge away, now it’s easier to breathe again. It was as if the long breakfast - and the liquid refills - worked as a sort of reset for them both.

John appears to be in one of his top three best moods. He’s been joking flirtatiously with Mummy, making her blush (she loves it). He’s been chatting with Caroline, they seem to have hit it off immediately, perhaps bonding over the children they’re both missing today. Written a prescription for Uncle Rudy. He’s patiently listened as Mycroft droned on about some godawful government thing, and gently patted Daddy on the shoulder with a short ’Sit down, Sir, I’ll get it’ whenever something was found missing from the already ridiculously overdone meal.

But most importantly: he’s been glancing across the table every now and then, catching Sherlock’s eye with a barely detectable smile. And on one of the occasions he got up to get something (a deli fork), he had put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he leaned over him to place it on the table.

_He put his hand on his shoulder._

_Why?_

Have to think more about that, later. But first, a short burst of activity as Uncle Rudy is thankfully, finally leaving; Daddy will drive him somewhere - Sherlock has forgotten where or what it was (has not bothered to learn it).

When they’re on their way, the rest of them exhales a collective breath of relief, then moves into the sitting room to plunk down for a while. Sherlock’s browsing the bookshelves, trying to find something to read and is just about to take a book out to hand over to John (crime novel, poor plot, just the sort of thing he’s always reading) when John gets up.

”I’m just going to pop upstairs to give Rosie a call,” he says, then turns to leave the room.

”Say hi to your little nugget from us,” Mummy says, which Sherlock finds excessively stupid since Rosie obviously has no idea who any of them are.

 _Watson_ , he’d used to call her, that short time before John left London. Had never before bothered to get to know a child, but this time, it had been… _different_.

He’d actually _wanted_ to know what to do, how to feed her, make her stop screaming, things like that. Had even felt a certain.. _joy_ , imagining the things he could eventually teach her. Had seen her not as just any child - because she wasn’t. She was _John’s_ child, and as such - relevant. Most relevant, even. _Now: Highly unlikely she remembered him at all._

***  
Mummy’s made Mycroft distribute mulled wine and some sort of frosted cookies. John sits in a chair with his cup on the side table next to him. His phone has been buzzing nonstop; seven incoming and five sent texts during the last twenty-two minutes. If Sherlock really tried, he could make out what John’s writing by observing the movements of his fingers, but knows that it unfortunately would require more staring than is socially acceptable. He briefly considers taking up his phone to secretly film him, then watch it in slow-mo replay, but.. no, seems a bit… _not good_.

After the ninth incoming text, even Mycroft glances a second too long in John’s direction, which makes Sherlock want to.. do something. Possibly hit Mycroft, or throw mulled wine on his shirt, or-

He sighs quietly, then steals another look. John’s smiling as he’s looking at the screen, his eyes ridiculously starry; then begins to type again (still hasn’t learned to use both hands, most likely never will).

”Brother,” Mycroft says from across the room. ”Time for a perimeter check?”

Hmm. Might as well, seeing as John seems so very preoccupied. He’s getting restless anyway.

”I think it is.” He gets up from his chair, hopes that John will say something but he doesn’t even seem to notice.

”Boys,” Mummy’s calling after them. ”No smoking!”

***  
It helps to get out of the house, the chilly winter air a nice change from the stuffy indoor heat. It’s a clear, sunny day, and so quiet out here compared to the city. The house is surrounded by fields and a few small islands of trees, everything covered in frost and snow. By the bird feeder Daddy’s put up, a male _Erithacus Rubecula_ is bickering with a few _Carduelis Carduelis_ for access to the seed.

Sherlock takes a first, long pull on his cigarette; relaxes as the nicotine releases into his bloodstream. Manages to form a perfectly round ring of smoke as he exhales.

”Impressive,” Mycroft says.

”I know,” he drawls, pleased with being able to show off a bit; a practiced smoke ring better than nothing.

”Who is John texting?”

 _That didn’t take him long._  Couldn’t Mycroft keep his long nose out of Sherlock’s personal matters for just one bloody day, would that really be too much to ask?  
He presses his lips hard together, takes another deep drag, looks away.

”You don’t know, do you?”

 _Leave me the fuck alone_ , Sherlock thinks, but doesn’t say it. Doesn’t want to give Mycroft the satisfaction of seeing him affected.

”It’s none of my business,” he eventually says. ”Neither yours.”

”Ha.” Mycroft huffs out a hard, single laugh. ”When has that ever stopped you?” He looks at Sherlock, thoughtfully. ”Do you want to put a tap on his phone? Easily managed, I’d be happy to help.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. ”Why in God’s name would I want to do that?”

Mycroft is silent for a long time - or maybe just for a few seconds but too long, anyway, for being him. Stays turned towards Sherlock, a thoughtful (condescending) look on his face.

”Tread carefully with that heart of yours, brother dear,” he says quietly, making Sherlock finally lose his temper.

”What the _hell_ am I supposed to say to that?!” He crushes his cigarette in the snow, hard, doesn’t bother to pick it up before stomping back inside. Leaves Mycroft standing there with those patronising fucking eyes of his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erithacus Rubecula is the Latin name for robin, Carduelis Carduelis for goldfinch.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a description of the loss of a beloved animal.

John removes the last two eggs from the carton, places them in the door tray instead. He’s wrapped the left over turkey in tin foil, and is now busy rearranging the contents of the packed fridge to make room for it.

”John, goodness, you really don’t have to do this,” Mrs Holmes says as she passes behind him, carrying something. ”It’s a horrible mess in there.”

”I actually kind of enjoy it. Easy to get results, unlike with most other things I do.”

”It appeals to John’s perfectionistic personality,” Sherlock says from the kitchen table where he’s seated, feet up on the chair next to him, scrolling through something on his phone. ”He’s tidied up the entire kitchen at Baker Street. Don’t mind him, and perhaps he’ll do the same thing here.”

”Did you, John? That makes me very happy to hear. Thank goodness you’re back again.”

John sees Sherlock quickly looking down, not saying anything more. Ah, right. Assumptions about things being in a way they can’t be, not with Sherlock.

It must have been hard for him, John thinks as he returns to sorting through the glass jars, checking the best-before date, then putting them back in a more orderly fashion. All the spoken and unspoken expectations, from everyone ranging from Sherlock’s own mother to… well, to John. Won’t happen again.

But it’s impossible to stop his mind from wandering; back to what happened in the darkness of Sherlock’s childhood room last night. And yes, he knows that Sherlock was asleep, that it was nothing more than an autonomic reflex, just the transport responding - _but Christ, the way Sherlock’s body had swayed into his, the gentle rhythm building between them…_ it plays on repeat in his head, again and again, as he keeps sorting and rearranging.

***  
Mission completed, he sits down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, idly flips through an old copy of Hello! that he finds there. Recognises practically no-one except some members of the Royal family, which, in all fairness, makes up about eighty percent of the contents anyway.

Sherlock has gone outside again to smoke, and perhaps John should be concerned but in the light of Sherlock’s previous vices, this one doesn’t seem worth the fight. _Maybe later._

But first, he needs to get the rest of the Baker Street flat back into shape again. Back to how it used to be. Second; get Sherlock to eat a bit more, better, and on a somewhat more regular basis. Hell, his own eating habits could really need some work as well.

Sherlock was right, he thinks - as always. John has really let himself slide since he moved out. Too much take away, too many evenings spent in front of the telly. That will all change now, though.

And it’s not until then John catches himself; realises that in his mind, he’s already moved back in.

***

”Is there any coffee left?” Caroline strolls into the kitchen, pours herself a cup, then comes to sit down across from him. ”God, I don’t think I can ever eat again.” She reaches to undo the top button of her black skirt. ”Sorry, just couldn’t breathe.”

”Where’s Mike and Sherlock?” She takes a sip of her coffee, leans over to look at a photo of Kate Middleton, wearing a hat and holding a white rabbit.

”Take a wild guess,” John says, and is about to ask her if she’s a smoker, too, when his phone buzzes once - then once again, before he’s even had a chance to reach for it. Then, two seconds later, again.

He takes it out from his pocket, sighs. ”My daughter got a mobile from Father Christmas. Unfortunately.” He scrolls through the texts, smiles at the images. ”I thought we had an agreement about this, but my ex-wife seems to do a bit as she pleases. I mean, Rosie’s five, for God’s sake!”

Caroline laughs. ”At least she _wants_ to text you! Enjoy it while it lasts. My girls are 20 and 22 and you wouldn’t believe the struggle it was, getting them to tell me their whereabouts the last few years they were living at home.” She puts her cup down. ”They’re clinging for dear life to their phones every hour of the day, but somehow, letting their poor parents know they’re still alive proved to be an insurmountable task.”

”Well, at the rate Rosie’s going, I’m afraid she’ll fill her lifetime quota of texts to her old man before the week is over.”

”Can I see?”

John hands her the phone, and Caroline studies the images of a happy Rosie, dressed in a pink polka-dot bathing suit and a wide-brim sun hat, posing in blurry selfies by the pool amongst a myriad of other children and colourful inflatable toys.

”Cute as a button,” Caroline smiles. ”Five is such a lovely age. Old enough to have proper conversations, young enough to let you cuddle them.”

***

They’ve all ended up in the sitting room again, after dutifully watching the Queen’s speech - which was quite entertaining, really, mostly due to the ongoing snarky commentary provided by Sherlock.

”John, Caroline!” Mrs Holmes is returning to the room, carrying a large photo album. Its cover is made of dark brown leather. It looks worn, and is of the older type with plastic pockets to hold the photos. Here and there, John can see newspaper clippings sticking out.

She puts it down on the coffee table with a heavy thump, squeezes in to sit down next to John in the sofa.

”Come, dear,” she says to Caroline, patting the empty seat next to her. ”I don’t think you’ve seen this, either!”

John sees the exact moment when Sherlock looks up from his book and realises what is about to happen.

”No!” He leaps out of his chair, stands in front of the coffee table, staring at his mum with such a panic stricken face that John has a very hard time not bursting into laughter.

”What the hell are you doing? Nobody wants to look at boring old pictures, give it to me-”

Mrs Holmes is quicker than Sherlock, grabs the album, holds it tight against her chest.  
”Goodness Sherlock,” she laughs. ”There’s nothing compromising in here, I assure you.”

”Mummy, Sherlock’s right. You’ll bore our guests out of their minds with that,” Mycroft snaps. Sherlock turns abruptly to look at him instead.

”Sorry, what was that? I don’t think I’ve ever heard those words from your mouth.”

Mycroft smiles at him, and John thinks that Mycroft has certainly perfected the art of fake smiles.  
”It’s Christmas, after all. Consider it my gift to you.”

”I thought we agreed on no gifts this year,” Sherlock says angrily, then sits back down again in his chair with a very heavy sigh. ”But Mummy seems hell-bent on taking it one step further.”

”Come now, Sherlock. This is hardly a punishment. I simply think that John and Caroline might enjoy some of these pictures.” With that, she opens the album in her lap, begins to flip through the first pages.

”Now, John, I know there are photos of Sherlock in the choir, here, somewhere…”

And John sees Sherlock slowly sinking deeper and deeper into his chair, covering his face with his palm.

In the chair next to him, Mycroft is looking equally deflated. ”My God, why hast thou forsaken me,” John hears him mutter as Mrs Holmes flips though the pages.

”Oh, look, here it is!”

John leans closer to see the details. It’s Sherlock, alright, only a much, much younger version of him. His hair impossibly curly, leaning almost a little bit towards ginger. Face much rounder, softer, but those silvery eyes unmistakable. He’s posing awkwardly in front of the church John recognises from last night. And, just like Mycroft described, he’s dressed in a long white robe with a cardinal red shirt showing underneath. A pleated white collar is sticking up so high it nearly touches his earlobes.

”Just precious, wouldn’t you agree?” Mrs Holmes says. John can’t take his eyes off the picture.

”How… how old is he, in this picture?”

”Still here,” Sherlock says. He’s taken his hand away from his face now, is leaning forward in his chair. ”Ten.”

”God…” John whispers, and then realises he probably sounds a bit, well. Emotional. Maybe he is.

”Oh, look!” Mrs Holmes pokes at Mr Holmes, who seems to have dosed off for a moment.

He startles. ”Huh?”

”Look! Do you remember? It was that day we spent at the beach - oh, look at that, Sherlock!” She’s beaming as she pours over the images. ”You were in your pirate phase. That hat! You refused to go anywhere without it.”

An intense warmth is growing in John’s chest as he takes it all in. Somehow, he hasn’t really thought about the fact that Sherlock, this brilliant, amazing man, genius of reasoning, was once… just a kid. A little boy in a mustard knitted jumper, red trousers tucked into wellies. Being a pirate. _Oh Sherlock._

He tears himself away from the image for a moment, tries to catch Sherlock’s eyes. What he’d really like to do is to just get up and hug him, squeeze him tight. Sherlock meets his eyes with an unsure look on his face. John smiles.

”Adorable,” he says. Maybe later, when no-one is around, he can snap a picture of this photograph. Wants to keep it, somehow.

”Who’s the little cutie in the red wellies?” Caroline asks, and it’s Mycroft who replies.

”Oh, that was our neighbours’ girl. Unusual name - Eurus, was it..? Only child, so she’d come with us, sometimes. She was a bit… _special_ , wasn’t she, Mummy?”

”Yes… yes she was. Poor girl. I heard it hasn’t gone so well for her, in life. Struggling with her mental health, I’ve gathered… But we had such fun, that day. Do you remember it, Mycroft?”

”Mmm,” he says. ”The day. Not the fun.”

John thinks that he will probably not be able to see Mycroft as quite so intimidating again, not after these pictures. Because whatever will come, John will always remember the young Mycroft: a bit on the heavy side, looking miserable and out of place somehow compared to his cute little brother in the pirate hat.

***

As Mrs Holmes is about to turn the page again, Sherlock abruptly reaches over the table, puts his hand on the album.

”Wait,” he says, intense eyes fixed on a picture.”Wait, let me see that last one.”

Mrs Holmes hesitates - then hands the album over to Sherlock, who immediately pulls it closer.

”Redbeard,” Mrs Holmes says, softly. John looks at Sherlock, who appears to be completely immersed in the photograph.

”You really had a special bond with that dog,” Mr Holmes says. ”Tragedy, what happened.”

Sherlock’s still looking at the picture, then moves his hand to touch it. With his index finger, he slowly traces the contours of the Irish Setter in the photograph. Around him, everybody sits quietly waiting.

Then, just as abruptly as he began, he hands the album back to his mum.  
”Do go on,” he says, then gets up and is out of the room before anyone has a chance to reply.

John instinctively gets up from the sofa to go after him, but Mrs Holmes puts her hand on his arm. He wants to break free from the touch, feels his jaws clenching, but tries to breathe out instead.

”He’ll be back soon,” she says. ”Just give him a minute.”

This frustrates John even more, because if there’s one thing he’s pretty damn sure of, it’s that he knows how to deal with Sherlock. But the pressure to be a good guest weighs over, this time. He sits down again, impatiently glancing towards the door opening.

Might as well grab the chance. ”What happened, with Redbeard?”

”It’s really such a sad story,” Mrs Holmes says in a hushed voice. ”You know, Sherlock was… so lonely, growing up. And we thought that a dog might be good for him, so we got Redbeard. It was Sherlock who named him, of course.” She smiles, pensively.

”They were inseparable, right from the start. That dog followed him everywhere, slept in his bed. But then, there was the accident…” She pauses briefly.

”Sherlock had taken the dog out to play, even though we’d told him not to. It was late afternoon, in the winter, getting dark already. The car didn’t have a chance to see that dog before it was too late. Poor thing, there was nothing the vet could do to save him. He had to be put down.”

She swallows, quickly dabs her sleeve at the corner of her eyes. Caroline has put her hand on Mrs Holmes’ shoulder, and Mrs Holmes reaches up to squeeze it.

”Sherlock… took it very hard. For a long time, I think he blamed himself. He was just a small child - and we tried to explain it to him, of course, that accidents happen and it’s nobody’s fault - but it was very difficult to get through.”

”He was different, somehow, after that,” Mr Holmes adds.

”Sherlock has always been ’different’," Mycroft says sharply. "And now, if you don’t mind, could we perhaps move on from this cry fest? It is, after all, Christmas Day. Joy to the world, and all that.” Mycroft nods toward the album. ”What other fascinating photographs could you bestow upon our poor guests tonight?”

”Quite right, Mycroft.” Mrs Holmes smiles, wipes away one last tear, and starts flipping through the pages again. A newspaper article falls out, it’s about Mycroft having won some chess tournament. He’s smiling (genuinely, it seems) to the camera, holding a small trophy in his hands. Caroline looks up to where he’s seated on the arm rest of the sofa, smiles. ”Intelligent and handsome, then and now,” she says, and John thinks that there certainly seems to be someone out there for everyone.

”Ah. This should be a bit more joyful,” Mrs Holmes says. ”We were visiting, it was Easter I think - Sherlock's first year at Oxford.”

In the photo, Sherlock is looking quite a bit more like himself, but still very young and with shorter hair. He's wearing a black robe, ancient looking. The picture is taken outside, he’s sitting on a bench in front of a green, nice looking park. The sun is in his eyes, he’s squinting slightly, has his legs crossed. John’s relieved to see that in this picture, Sherlock is looking more relaxed. Happy, even.

Right next to Sherlock, another student is seated. He’s dressed exactly the same, apart from the shoes. Golden hair, broad shoulders, a light tan and a smile that surely must have gotten him a lot of girls, John thinks as he studies the picture.

”Who’s that?”

Both Mrs and Mr Holmes look up at him, at the same time as Sherlock appears in the door opening again. He looks like he’s back to his usual self, and in his hand he’s holding a tea mug.

”Oh, you don’t know?” Mrs Holmes says to John. ”That’s Victor Trevor.”

John looks at Sherlock, notices how the colour seems to drain from his face. Sherlock walks straight up to the sideboard in the back of the room, puts his tea mug down and instead, pours himself a large glass of scotch. Still standing, not speaking, he takes two big gulps of it in quick succession.

He then comes to sit down in his chair again. Sighs. John thinks he looks…. defeated, somehow.

”You alright?” John asks. Something is clearly wrong, but he’s unsure if it’s still because of the dog, or.. or something with this photograph?

”Never been better.” Sherlock takes another swig from his glass. He then turns to his mum, with a look that John could only describe as defiant. ”You were speaking about Victor, I gather?”

Mrs Holmes glances back and forth between Mr Holmes and Sherlock, hesitating. ”Well, yes, I.. John asked about this picture.”

Sherlock leans forward again, looks at it for a short moment. ”I see.”

John desperately wonders why the room suddenly became so tense.

”John. I don’t think you’ve heard me talk of Victor Trevor.” Sherlock’s face is completely neutral, impossible to read.

In his mind, John is racing through lots and lots of different possibilities. Roommate? Killer? Murder victim? Fencing opponent? All of the above?

”No; no I don't think I have."

”He was the only friend I made during the two years I was at college.” Sherlock pauses for a moment, seems to be weighing his next words.

”Well. I say ’friend’.”

Sherlock looks away, and John doesn’t know what to say. He really has no idea of what this is all about, or why this is so difficult to talk about.

 _Unless- no. No, impossible._ Can’t be - but something, a whirling thing in his gut, is telling him otherwise.

_Could it really be- but why hasn’t Sherlock said something, all these years? And Sherlock doesn’t do… that.. or- or does he? And John just hasn’t realised??_

_But he’s married to his work, so he said, ’not his area’- or wait - what did he say? ’Girlfriends, not my area' - Christ - did he tell John, that very first night? But, why, why hasn’t he- but that kiss, Sherlock kissed him, and he said he didn’t regret it-_

Oh God.

John feels dizzy, he notices that he’s so tense he’s trembling, his hands have gone icy cold. In the pit of his stomach, a very strange sensation, a jumble of panic and hope and confusion and anger and-

He sees the entire Holmes family exchanging quick glances between each other, questions unspoken. Sherlock is still looking down. Something has to be done, and John is a soldier, after all. One deep breath. Steady.

”Was he your boyfriend?” John tries his absolute best to sound completely relaxed, upbeat even, as he says it, but on the inside, it’s such chaos he’s faintly worried he’s going to be sick.

Sherlock meets his eyes.

”Yes,” he says.

John struggles to hide the thousand questions that pop into his head, wishes he could leave the room, get some time for himself to just sort out the myriad of different emotions running through him. _Sherlock had a boyfriend. Sherlock. Had. A. Boyfriend._

The tension in the room vanishes as soon as Sherlock’s confirmation is spoken. Everybody probably just assumes- _oh._ Of course. They’re thinking that John just didn’t know about this particular guy; not that… not that he and Sherlock have never even come close to this entire conversation, before.

”How is Victor?” Mrs Holmes waits as Sherlock downs the last content in his tumbler.

”I hear he’s doing well.”

”Is he still living in India?”

”Yep.”

”Such a sweet boy, he was. Heartbreaking, really, to lose both parents at such a young age-”

Sherlock very clearly has had enough. He puts both hands on the armrests of his chair, stands up decisively. ”Don’t you two have something to do in the kitchen? We haven’t eaten for at least an hour.”

”John,” Sherlock continues, and John meets his eyes - still unreadable, neutral. ”Up for a walk?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of Sherlock's lines here about Victor Trevor are quotes or near-quotes from ACD's The Adventure of the Gloria Scott.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter and the following, you'll find major spoilers for the ACD short story The Adventure of the Gloria Scott. It can be skipped, but you will miss a bit of backstory and developments. I've marked the beginning and the end of the spoiler part with five asterisks instead of the usual three.

It’s already dark outside, so Sherlock sets a quick pace along the narrow country road, instead of taking the trail through the forest. He’s still wearing Daddy’s jacket, it’s horrendous but he very reluctantly has to admit that it’s doing a better job than his coat at keeping him warm.

John’s trailing along, one foot behind, and Sherlock wonders if it’s a deliberate attempt to prevent him from being able to read his face.

They walk in silence. Sherlock has absolutely no idea of what to say. He only knows that it has to be done, has to be brought up in some shape or form, because this is precisely the kind of thing that John could get worked up about. Say ’I wish you would’ve told me’, or ’why did you keep me out’, or something in that general direction.

Sherlock will not make the same mistakes as before. Cannot afford it.

He casts a brief glance back at John, gets confirmation that he indeed has a lot of things on his mind, but also, that he is holding back. Unsure of what he can and cannot ask, perhaps.

After four and a half minutes and not a single word yet uttered, Sherlock can’t bear it any longer.

”Out with it.”

Frustratingly, this prompt is not sufficient for John.

”What?”

In Sherlock’s stomach, a nervous unrest. This… _talking thing_ , it’s not something he’s ever quite known how to do, and now, the stakes are high.

”You know perfectly well what. The questions in your head are so loud I can’t even hear my own thoughts.”

”Yes. Alright.” John pauses, maybe to collect courage. ”So. Victor, huh?”

To hear John say it, say his name; it makes Sherlock want to just change the subject and never mention it again. _No. Can’t do that._

”Yes. What about him?”

”I didn’t know.”

John sounds angry. Sherlock can’t make himself turn to face him, but he listens closely - yes. Clear and distinct signs of anger in John’s respiration, in the way he walks. Glances down and sees his glove-covered hand turn into a fist, then quickly releasing.

”Well. Now you do.” Sherlock’s words lands a bit harsher than he had intended.

Didn’t know what, though, he wonders. Is this about that photo, per se, about Victor specifically? Because surely, his sexual orientation must have been obvious to John?

They are not looking at each other, but John has caught up now, is walking right next to him. They keep a quick pace, their shoes making a creaking sound as they tread on the snow. Above them, the sky is clouded, no stars visible. On both sides of the road, now, dense, silent forest.

John draws his breath, hesitates, exhales. Breathes in again, then finally speaks.

”I hope you know, Sherlock. I know I’ve even told you, long time ago. That I think it’s _all fine_.”

Oh how Sherlock hates these words. He feels his jaw clench, his shoulders tensing.

”And _I’ve_ told _you_ : I bloody well know it is! I’m not ashamed of who I am, John, and I don’t need your-.” He cuts the sentence short.

The unrest in Sherlock’s stomach is getting worse; is beginning to spread to his chest and to his throat, restricting his airways just a little bit. This is not at all going the way he was intending, and he has to do something to turn it around.

”John.” Sherlock stops in his tracks, and John stops too, turns towards him for the first time since they went outside. They’re on the side of the road, the light from a nearby house casting a faint light over them.

”As I’ve tried to teach you, repeatedly, although you never seem to learn: It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has all the data. It invariably leads to-”

John cuts him off, unconcealed anger in his voice. ”-twisting the data to suit your theories and not the other way around, yes, thank you very much, I know. But I _don’t_ know why the _hell_ you suddenly need to lecture me about that again.”

 _No no no._ Sherlock’s mouth feels dry. Needs to be more precise, apparently.

”Look. I just meant that- I know you must think that my reason for not mentioning- um, this- was a desire to conceal personal matters from you - such as my partner preference, or my sexual history.”

He sees John flinch as he says the last part.

Deep breath. ”But that is not why.”

John’s face has changed now, from anger to something more difficult to read. It’s his soldier face - neutral, unwavering. He’s standing in front of Sherlock, back stick straight, intently waiting.

Sherlock swallows. ”John, I’ve never talked to anyone about this. It concerns events that took place a long time ago. Ghosts of the past, that… set me on a certain course, in more ways than one.”

But then he can’t continue, although he wants to - or rather, feels that he needs to, to make John understand.

Sherlock’s beginning to feel the cold now, it’s creeping in beneath his clothes. He puts his gloved hands in his pockets to warm them up; suddenly has a strong wish to return to the house again. Does not want to have this conversation out here, in the middle of a dark forest - in the midst of the no man’s land that he left for London, a long, long time ago, and never looked back.

”Can we go back inside? If you want, I’ll tell you the story, later tonight.”

John takes a deep breath, holds it for two seconds, then slowly exhales. Then, he smiles, which makes Sherlock almost weak with relief.

”Gotta love a great cliffhanger,” he says. ”Of course. But I’ll hold you to it.”

”A cliffhanger? Who?”

”Are you serious?”

”I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock says, shaking his head, and John’s smile widens.

”Goodness. A cliffhanger is something that ends in suspense, to keep you hooked. Like a film that has a sequel they want you to watch, for example.”

”So it has nothing to do with failed mountaineering, then?”

”No,” John laughs as they turn to walk rapidly back to the house again. ”It usually hasn’t.”

***

The evening has dragged on forever; in fact, this day feels more like a week, and Sherlock can’t wait for the others to finally just go away. But when, at last, Mycroft and Caroline say goodnight and disappear upstairs, Sherlock realises that now there’s just John and him left in the sitting room - and that, in all likelihood, means he’s going to have to finish what he started on their walk.

He gets up, pours himself another glass of wine, and without asking, another scotch for John. _Liquid courage_. Maybe he’s had just a tiny bit too much to drink, but he figures he’s worth it after having endured an entire Christmas with his family.

Unfortunately his fine motor control betrays him, and as he sits down in the sofa, he spills a few drops of red wine on the coffee table in front of them.

”Whoops,” Sherlock says. John leans forward from the other corner of the sofa, puts a napkin on the table to soak it up. His gaze is fixed on Sherlock: a doctor’s eyes, assessing.

”I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

John leans back into his seat again, puts his sock-clad feet up on the table. ”I don’t think I’m in a position to judge. It’s been a long day. Especially for you, Sherlock.”

John picks up the tumbler but doesn’t drink from it, just holds it, slowly swirling the content. ”You know, that thing you mentioned, before-”

As if his arm and hand are operating on their own, Sherlock finds himself taking a big gulp from his glass again.

”-you really don’t have to tell me. I was wrong, to… react. You have no obligations towards me, I know that.”

Maybe it should come as a relief, but there’s something in John’s words that makes Sherlock’s stomach drop a bit. No obligations. He thinks that he would prefer if there were.

”I want to. Tell you. If you… want. To listen.”

”Course I do,” John says, immediately.

Sherlock toes off his shoes, folds cross legged into the sofa. ”Just… give me a moment.”

* * * * * 

_He shuts his eyes. Allows himself to start descending that old spiral staircase, down and further down, to the basement floors he so seldom allows himself to visit. Stops in front of a heavy wooden door, medieval in its appearance. Lifts the heavy beam that’s barricading it, the door makes a creaky sound as it slowly swings open. He takes a deep breath, inhales the cool, moist air. Enters._

”I met Victor about halfway into my first year at college. As you might guess, I wasn’t the most sociable of students. Was always rather fond of moping in my room and working on my own little methods. And although I took both fencing and boxing, I wasn’t a part of that athletic group, either. Mostly kept to myself.”

He briefly glances up, sees warmth in John’s eyes. Reassured, Sherlock looks away again, down into his glass.

”Victor was the only one I got to know there, and that was only because of an accident - his bull terrier freezed on my ankle one morning as I was on my way to something.”

”His dog bit you?” John’s face is very difficult to read, but he speaks in a soft tone. ”That’s quite a meet-cute.”

There is something else, something sharper, pointer, in John’s eyes as he says it, but Sherlock can’t put his finger on what. Also, it doesn’t help that John is using strange words that Sherlock has never heard of. Deducing John will have to wait a bit, he decides. He needs his focus now to get through telling this story.

”A _meet-cute_?”

John waves his hand. ”Sorry, Sherlock, never mind. Please, go on.”

”It was just an ordinary way of forming a friendship, I guess. But effective. The injury was fairly deep, and I was ordered by the doctor to rest in my room for ten days, to let it heal.

”Ten days! Must have been a bad wound. And I can’t even imagine how you were able to tolerate ten days of rest.”

”Mmm, it got infected. And yes, ten days was…. long. But Victor started to come by to see me. First, it was only for a minute’s chat or so, but soon, his visits grew longer. By the end of that term, we were- um. Close.”

Despite all he’s said before, it feels like a confession. Sherlock keeps his eyes fixed steadily on the glass, holds it with both hands in his lap.

”What was he like?” 

”Victor was… easy-going, sincere. A true extrovert, full of energy and laughter. The very opposite of me, in most ways. But as we got to know each other, I found we had a lot of things in common, too. And to my surprise, I discovered he was just as friendless as I was. It grew into a… strong bond.”

Another sip, glass almost empty now. Head in a bit of a blur, he should probably stop drinking now.

”Finally, he invited me down to his father’s place at Donnithorpe, in Norfork; asked me to stay for a month during summer vacation. His father, Mr Trevor, was quite well off, and the house was grand - a wide-spread, oak-beamed brick building, with wild duck-shooting and fishing on the estate, as well as a beautiful old library inherited from the previous owner. No trouble passing the time, there.”

”Yikes.”

”Victor had lost both his mother and his sister, earlier, so it was just him and his father living there. Except for the help, of course. They even had a tolerable cook.”

Sherlock finally looks up, sees John’s bewildered expression. ”I know. Sounds like it was a hundred and fifty years ago, doesn’t it.” John just shakes his head, smiling.

”Victor’s father interested me extremely. He wasn’t an educated man, but he had this… raw strength, both physically and mentally. He’d travelled a lot, seen much of the world, and learned through experience rather than books. In the local community, I discovered he had a reputation for his kindness and charity work. He served as a Justice of Peace there, and was known for the leniency of his sentences from the bench.”

Sherlock trails off, and in the pause that follows, John gets up to refill his tumbler, and when he returns to the sofa he has the wine bottle in his hand, raises his eyebrows in a question.

”Please,” Sherlock says. He knows he shouldn’t. But this is just… _difficult_.

John sits down again, not saying anything, his complete attention on Sherlock.

”Then, it all went to hell. And that was, in no small part, my fault.”


	16. Chapter 16

_Inside, the room is pitch black. Sherlock grabs a torch from the end of the spiral staircase, holds it in front of him to light his way. The doorway is too low, he has to bow his head to enter. Feels a strong urge to leave. He hasn’t been down here in this room for a very, very long time._

”One evening, just a few days after I got there, we were sitting over a glass of port after dinner. Victor began to talk about my habit of observing; about how I could figure things out by inference. His father thought he was exaggerating, so he challenged me to deduce what I could of him.”

”Oh no,” John whispers, Sherlock is not sure if he’s aware he’s said it out loud.

”It started out well enough. I deduced a few details - that he’d been into boxing; those sort of things, and he seemed impressed, in a good way. But then, there was one last deduction that… I noted he had traces of a small tattoo; someone’s initials. I could see he’d tried to get rid of it, and so I gathered it must be an intimate connection, a person he’d later tried hard to forget. And that deduction absolutely shocked the man. Nearly fainted. Both Victor and I got really concerned about him.” Sherlock takes another drink, notices a faint tremble in his hands.

”But you know, John - when he’d calmed down again, he was also the first one to suggest to me that I could do this for a living. Still remember his words: ’All the detectives would be children in your hands...”

”Well… he was right. Then what happened?”

”Mr Trevor was really uncomfortable around me, after that, Victor even told me so. I began to feel like I was imposing, that my mere presence there was ruining their vacation. So I decided to cut my visit a bit short.”

The sitting room is lit only by a few table lamps. In the fire place, pieces of coal are still glowing. The entire house is wrapped in silence now, but outside, in the far distance, a dog is barking. Sherlock runs his fingers through his hair, once, trying to collect the scattered images and memories of everything that happened. So many years have passed since then, but the wound still feels fresh now when he pokes around in it.

”The night before I was leaving, an unpleasant, rough-looking man showed up in the garden, someone from way back in Mr Trevors past. They went away to talk, and when Mr Trevor didn’t return, Victor and I went to look for him. Found him, passed out drunk, in the kitchen. And for some reason that neither of us could comprehend at the time, it turned out Mr Trevor had given him a job at the estate, as gardener.”

Sherlock's getting to the most difficult part in all this, his throat is beginning to feel more and more restricted, It’s like every single word he wants to say is actively fighting him back.

”Victor… asked me to stay, but… I just felt I had to leave. Thought I’d already caused that poor old man too much trouble, and that it’d be better if he could just get some time alone with his son instead of having me there to remind him constantly of something he so clearly wanted to forget. So. I left.”

Another sip. Glass almost empty again. Sherlock pauses to refill it from the bottle John left on the coffee table.

”Went back to London. I had a room at Montague Street back then. Spent the next seven weeks locked up in there, with my chemistry experiments. Victor tried to call, a number of times, but I guess…. I guess I didn’t.. pick up. I figured it would be better for them if I.. just… went away.”

” _Why_?” John asks. ”Why, it sounds to me like you were- really close. Wasn’t it hard to just disappear from the face of the earth, from someone you, er. Loved. Without a word?”

Sherlock sees the parallel before John does. He looks away to not have to see the moment when the realisation downs on him, but still hears John’s sharp inhale as it hits him.

”Ah,” John eventually says, short-clipped. ”Right.”

Sherlock sighs. ”John, I-”

”No,” John says. ”No, Sherlock, let’s not. Not tonight. It’s.. it’s alright.”

And Sherlock thinks that there is so much, _so fucking much_ that John doesn’t know, or doesn’t know completely, and yes, one day that should probably be dealt with. But right now, no. He just can’t.

Sherlock’s voice comes out as barely a whisper. ”Good.”

Another deep breath. _Just get this over with now, Holmes, goddamnit-_

”Just before the end of summer vacation, Victor sent me a telegram.”

”A _telegram_?”

”Yes. An actual telegram, on paper, delivered to my door. I guess he figured that was the only way, since I didn’t reply to.. well. In it, he begged me to come back to Dunnithorpe. Said that bad things had happened and that he was in great need of my help. Of course I dropped everything and went back.”

”When Victor met me at the station, I could see that the last two months had been very hard for him. He had lost a lot of weight, and looked wearied, worn-down. Nothing left of that happy person he’d always used to be. The first thing he said to me was, ’Daddy is dying’.

Sherlock shifts in the sofa, his legs are beginning to go numb.

”Apparently Mr Trevor had suffered a massive stroke after getting some kind of threatening letter. When we arrived at the hospital just a short while later, we found out that he had passed away.”

It’s getting too much. Sherlock puts his glass down on the table, hard; his legs and arms restless. He swallows, tries to compose himself. His distress shows, he thinks, because suddenly, John’s hand is on his arm, gently rubbing it.

”I’m sorry,” is all John says.

Blood alcohol level has apparently reached the point where his natural inhibition begins to slip. Without thinking, Sherlock puts one of his hands on top of John’s. John stills, then turns his hand, palm up. Takes Sherlock’s. Squeezes it briefly.

With John’s hand still in his, Sherlock decides to get through the rest.

”Back at the house, Victor showed me the letter. At first I couldn’t figure it out, but then I realised it was a skip code. Every third letter, and then it made sense. Long story short; turned out Mr Trevor had gotten himself into trouble when he was young. Had a debt, and embezzled money from the bank where he was working to pay it off. Had intentions to return the ’loan’, as he saw it, to the bank as soon as he could, but we all know how that story usually goes. Was caught, sentenced, but shortly after there was a riot and he took the chance to escape. Built a completely new life in Australia, made a lot of money trading gold. Returned to England as a wealthy man, new identity, determined to be a better person. But, his past eventually caught up with him. Starting with my deduction of those initials, that night. Ending with a stroke brought on by the blackmail that old acquaintance subjected him to.”

”Oh, Sherlock,” John says. He’s stroking the upper side of Sherlock’s hand with his thumb now. The touch is very comforting. Gives him the strength to express the thing he’s fought the hardest to forget.

”I have never forgiven myself for letting both of them down the way I did. I could have prevented this, I know I could’ve. And I decided, after all this- I decided to try my very best to… to _not get involved_. Realised that, um. That sort of thing. Wasn’t for me.”

”Sherlock,” John says. ”Hey. Look at me.”

Sherlock reluctantly meets his eyes.

”What happened… was tragic. But it wasn’t your fault. His past would have caught up with him, anyway. You had nothing to do with him being blackmailed.”

”No. But I know I could have changed the outcome. If I had stayed, I would have figured it out; found a way to prevent them from getting to him. And then… Mr Trevor would have been able to live out his life as the good man he was, and Victor wouldn’t have been heartbroken. If I had stayed, I’m certain things would not have-”

He shakes his head in a vain effort to rid himself of the ugly emotions welling up. Shifts in the sofa, lets go of John’s hand as he gestures in frustration.

”But I didn’t, John. Because while they were back there struggling for their lives, I was in London doing stupid chemistry experiments.” He picks up his glass, finishes off, puts it back down firmly. Looks at John. ”And cocaine.”

John shuts his eyes for a brief moment, then wraps his hand around Sherlock’s arm.

”Sherlock… no. You can’t- you can’t know what would have happened. You were very young, and you did what you believed was right at the time. Maybe Mr Trevor wouldn’t even have accepted your help. Maybe the blackmailers had just found another way, after you’d left. Maybe he’d had a stroke anyway. There are all kinds of things that could have happened. Point is - you _did not_ cause that man’s death. And I’m so sorry you’ve had to carry that on your shoulders, for all this time.”

John begins to rub along Sherlock’s arm. Up, down, up again. His palm radiating warmth through the cotton of Sherlock’s shirt. It’s a soothing touch, grounding.

”Listen to me. It _wasn’t your fault_.” Sherlock sees worry, and concern, and so much warmth in the way John looks at him. Realises with great relief what he doesn’t see: blame, anger, disgust. _Freak, psychopath, machine-_

A heavy sigh escapes Sherlock. He feels so tired, absolutely drained, and also, the wine is making his head spin, just a little. And at the same time… as he’s told John the story, something strange has happened. It’s like a space has opened up inside his chest, light and airy instead of the dark black lump that’s been stuck there for so long.

_In the dark cellar room, a buzzing sound, followed by a bright blueish light flickering for a few seconds before becoming steady. Old fluorescent lamps in the ceiling, where did those come from? The room is bathed in bright light. Sherlock looks around. Finds it empty, but in the middle of the room, there is a small, wooden box. Sherlock walks up to it. Pauses for a few seconds, then opens the lid. Inside is a polaroid picture, yellowish at the corners: Victor and Mr Trevor, smiling happily from their garden chairs outside that beautiful old house. He picks it up, puts the photograph in the pocket on the inside of his coat. Turns around, exits. Leaves the light on and the heavy door open. Walks with easy steps up the staircase, up, up towards John and the present moment._

* * * * * 

”Sherlock?” When he opens his eyes, John has moved closer. He is observing Sherlock with a deep furrow between his eyebrows. Sherlock starts when he feels John’s warm hand touching his face; his calloused thumb gently swiping away wetness from the skin beneath his eyes. _Oh._

He can’t think. No more energy for that, not anymore, this night. And ethanol, unlike most molecules, can easily cross the blood-brain-barrier; Sherlock can definitely feel the evidence of that, now. He allows himself to lean forward, until his forehead is resting against John’s shoulder. Notices how John tenses up for a short moment - but Sherlock doesn’t even have it in him to worry about that.

John relaxes, Sherlock feels the hand on his arm move up to his neck, where it curls beneath his hairline. John's other arm snakes around Sherlock, palm flat against his back. Same gentle rubbing; up, down, up. Fingers brushing through his hair in the back of his neck.

At first, Sherlock just lets himself be held, notices his heart rate coming down, minute by minute. Then, he puts both his arms around John, pulls him closer. John’s body against his, feels so good. Inhales the scent of him.

John leans down, mumbles into Sherlock’s hair. ”Thank you. I’m glad you wanted to tell me.”

A burning sensation in Sherlock’s chest. _John_ , is all he can think. _John_. Whose hand is in Sherlock’s hair still, holding rather than stroking.

He moves his hands to cup the sides of John’s face, short stubble against his palms. Sherlock's fingers brushing over soft earlobes. Runs his thumbs over them again, rolls them between thumb and index finger. Strong impulse to taste, to lick. To sink his teeth into one of them.

Something shifts in the room, Sherlock can feel it happening. John is sitting very still, but Sherlock, who has had two fingers below John’s jaw for a while, noticed when his pulse spiked.

Sherlock slowly raises his head until they are face to face. Impossibly close, breath intermingling.

John licks his lips, and Sherlock looks, transfixed. John’s wet lips, the pointy tip of his tongue-

Maybe Sherlock is staring at John’s lips. It’s quite possible he is. Still face to face, barely an inch apart, breathing into each other.

”Yes,” John murmurs, voice raspy, and Sherlock tears his gaze away from John’s lips and up to his eyes. ”The answer to your question is yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of the story Sherlock is telling John here, is made up of quotes (modernised/adapted) from Arthur Conan Doyle's short story The Adventure of the Gloria Scott.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock’s heart is pounding in his ears. He tilts forward; his eyes open, John’s closed. Lets his lips very lightly brush over John’s. Gets a soft gasp in return. Does it again, and this time, John opens his eyes and presses back, parting his lips against Sherlock’s.

Mouth against mouth, a wet slide, and all Sherlock can think is _John, John, John-_  
Through the roar of his blood, he can hear himself breathe. It sounds like he’s running.

”God, Sherlock-” John’s voice is breathy, his eyes blown wide open.  
.  
Sherlock needs more. One hand on John’s shoulder, the other behind his neck. Decisively presses him down on his back, into the sofa and the pillows. Sits on top of him, knees on each side of John’s thighs. Leans forward, meets his mouth in a wet kiss.

Sherlock takes in the details of John’s face. He’s smiling, his eyes shining. He’s looking at him the way he always used to, before, when Sherlock had done something _brilliant_ and _extraordinary_ -

John’s hands tangles in Sherlock’s hair, pulls him closer. Chest brushes against chest, Sherlock runs a hand over John’s shirt; solid muscle under soft fabric.

Feels an urgency to the point of desperation, because what if this is something that will only happen once in his life? Doesn’t have a clue how this came about, but knows that _easy come, easy go-_

Panic stirring in his chest at the thought; luckily, the buzz in his head makes it easy to shut it off. He closes his eyes and lets himself melt into the unreal sensations of touching John, of leaning into his body, sucking his lower lip-

Hands roaming over Sherlock’s neck, arms, back. When he feels John’s hands sliding down lower, Sherlock’s breath hitches.

”Mmm,” John sighs, his lips against Sherlock’s ear. ”Your arse, Sherlock, _fuck_ how I’ve wanted to to this-”

 _John has wanted to grab his arse? Before tonight?_ It makes no sense at all, but right now, it doesn’t matter.

John pulls Sherlock’s head down, prods into his mouth again and Sherlock meets him. Tongue licking tongue. Sherlock’s lips: wet with saliva, his and John’s. When John lets out a very quiet moan, it goes straight to Sherlock’s cock, straining against the restriction of his trousers.

”John,” he murmurs. ”Please, _please_ -”

Doesn’t even know what he’s asking for; only that his entire body needs _more_.

He sits up, abruptly. Quickly yanks the tails of John’s shirt out of his trousers. Slips his hands in underneath, and is stunned by the sensory input: warm skin and coarse hair on John’s stomach. Runs them up over his nipples; small, erect. John gasps.

_More._

Moves to John’s belt, begins to pull at the buckle but John puts a firm hand over his, stills him.

”Wait,” John whispers, breathily. Wrangles himself to a more upright position. ”Sherlock, what- what are we doing?”

C2H5OH has infiltrated Sherlock’s brain. Or maybe it’s endorphins. Only wants to keep kissing John.

Laughter, bubbling up from nowhere. ”Don’t they teach you anything in Med School?”

”Git,” John giggles. ”But Sherlock, look, just- On a scale from one to ten, how drunk are you?”

Too much speaking, too little kissing. ”Honestly, John. If this is your idea of dirty talk-”

”Sherlock.” John suddenly sounds like he means it, and Sherlock’s mind sharpens a little at the stern look he’s getting.

He sighs, rolls his eyes for dramatic effect. ”It’s impossible to answer that question because the measurement lacks defined reference points. Also, establishing reliability and validity in a scale usually requires a minimum of three items per factor. With a single-item scale like the one you’re proposing, there’s no way to compute, for example, internal consistency reliability. The question of validity is also problematic, and would need to be established through examination of convergent validity, preferably with a physiological measure such as-”

”Alright, alright.” John holds his hands up, grins big. ”I think you’ve just answered my question.”

”Did I get it right?”

John reaches up to grab Sherlock’s shoulders, finally pulls him close again. ”Yes, you did,” he whispers smilingly, lips ghosting over Sherlock’s.

Sherlock parts his lips; an invitation. John cups the back of Sherlock’s head, lets his tongue slip into Sherlock’s mouth again and this time, the kisses turns wet and urgent right from the beginning.

Cannot resist any longer. He sneaks a hand down in between them, presses it against John’s groin. Finds his cock rock hard beneath the fabric of his trousers. Rubs his palm along it; and _oh_ how he’s longed to do this. Years and years of fantasies coming true in this shining moment.

John throws his head back into the pillow; squeezes his eyes shut, as if in pain. ” _Fuck-_ ” he whispers, pushing up into Sherlock’s touch. ” _Oh, fuck, Sherlock-_ ”

If he’d just been a bit more sober, he would’ve memorised every single detail, but, _Christ_ , John’s cock is at least the size he’s estimated. Maybe even a quarter of an inch more in circumference. He tries to wrap his fist around it, as much as he reasonably can, given the barrier of the trousers.

Just as Sherlock is considering whether he dares to give John’s belt another try, John surprises him. He somehow manages to push up from the sofa, uses his legs to shift Sherlock’s balance, and the effect is that Sherlock ends up lying flat on top of him. And Sherlock may be a bit woozy - alright, maybe a tiny bit more than that, even- but he still has presence enough to support some of his bodyweight on his elbows.

Stares at John, in awe and wonder, because he’d _never_ \- he’d never thought any of this could be possible. John laughs.

John reaches around him, takes a firm hold on his arse, and then pulls his hips down and _oh_ \- finally friction. Through the fabric, he can feel John’s cock against his. _Unreal._

”Oh, Sherlock, fuck-” John presses up harder against him.

They are starting to grind into each other, and it’s the most glorious thing. Sherlock leans down to lick the side of John’s neck, finally gets a chance to bite that earlobe. Hips finding a rhythm, slowly building.

”Yeah, that’s it,” John whispers. ”That’s it.” He still has his hands on Sherlock’s arse, guiding him into place as Sherlock sets the pace. _Like fucking_ , he thinks; it’s like they’re fucking. _This is what it would be like._ Hears himself whine into John’s mouth.

Sherlock has just started to worry about the rapidly increasing risk that he might come in his pants when, before he knows how, he’s lying on his side, pressed into the sofa with John right next to him. John is holding his hand over Sherlock’s mouth, presumably to keep him quiet.

”Wha-” he tries to say against John’s palm. John shakes his head. His eyes are fixed on Sherlock’s, wordlessly communicating something. _Shut Up_ , most likely.

Sherlock pauses to listen. _Ah._ Footsteps on the stairs, approaching.

They lie frozen next to each other in the sofa. Sherlock can tell by the weight of the steps and the the pattern of movement that it’s Daddy, and Christ, can’t these old people _just stay put_ for once in a bloody while?

The hallway light comes on. Sherlock hears him puttering about the kitchen, cupboard opening and closing, the tap running. Stares at John’s face. Decides to lick a broad stripe across the palm that is currently covering his mouth. Gets another stern look from John, very encouraging. Does it again.

”Stop!” John mouths. He stops.

Instead, frees the hand that’s squeezed in between them, moves it to John’s cock and begins to stroke him through his trousers. Discovers he’s able to make out the contours; the ridge, the head, and _God, it’s actually happening_ -.

Clearly, John had not anticipated this move, because he moans audibly into the room, a pained ’Ah!’, which causes Sherlock to giggle into John’s shoulder.

”Sherlock? Is that you?” Seems Daddy is now standing in the doorway, and John squeezes his eyes shut and stays absolutely still in the sofa. The room is dimly lit, and given the brightness in the hallway paired with a declining eyesight, Sherlock thinks it’s unlikely that Daddy’s able to see John even though he’s lying right in front of him. Sits up.

”What?" he says, irritably. ”Is it past my bedtime?”

Daddy chuckles. ”Actually, I think it is. Make sure to get some sleep now, it’ll do you good.”

”I will,” he says, then thinks that maybe that was suspiciously agreeable. ”If I feel like it.”

Daddy sighs. ”Well, alright then. Grab something from the kitchen if you’re feeling peckish. Good night, Sherlock.”

”Good night,” Sherlock says as Daddy’s leaving. ”Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs… bite.”

John is huffing air through his nose again; a quelled laughter.

 _Quick deliberation._ It’s highly unlikely that John’s willing to, say, take off his clothes here in the sitting room, and Sherlock urgently needs him to.

”Come,” Sherlock says, climbs over John to stand up. Takes his hand, tries to drag him up. ”Bed.”

***  
It could have been awkward, leaving the sofa and walking upstairs together, but it’s not. It is, however, not so easy to get his feet to cooperate - a wee bit difficult to walk quietly. Or straight. _But he’s not, anyway, so_ -

Must have been smiling as they climbed the stairs, because John raises his eyebrows. ”What?" he smiles. "What’s so funny?”

”I’m not straight,” Sherlock says.

”Noo… I think I’ve deduced that much, tonight.” A bemused look on John’s face. He’s whispering, likely because now they are in the upstairs hallway and maybe he’s being _considerate_ of people sleeping, or something.

”Loo? Go first if you want.” John nods towards the door, and yes, come to think of it, he actually needs that quite badly. Still half hard but manages, anyway. Washes off quickly and brushes his teeth while he’s at it.

***  
When John is in there, Sherlock tries to come up with a game plan. He knows he really needs to keep the momentum going now. John cannot be allowed to start _thinking_ , because then he might… wake up from this trance or spell or whatever this is, and then… no.

Sherlock undresses at a speed worthy of a fireman - _or maybe firemen just dress really fast, but take their time to undress, that would be a reasonable assumption. Wouldn’t mind observing to confirm, however, sometime-_

He nearly loses his balance when he’s taking his trousers off, manages to grab the desk for support. Good. Throws on a thin white cotton T-shirt and a new pair of pants. Pushes the old stuff underneath the bed, flicks on a small table lamp in a corner of the room. Stands by the door, waiting.

***  
When John comes in, it takes Sherlock about a tenth of a second to see that it was a mistake to allow John time by himself. He’s still fully dressed. He’s blinking more frequently than when in a relaxed (or aroused) state, and he’s not immediately coming up to Sherlock even though he’s standing there, ready, waiting. _Fuck._

Sherlock looks down into the floor. Swallows, his throat feels tight. John apparently takes pity on him, because he’s coming closer, gives Sherlock’s upper arm a quick brush.

”Sherlock,” he begins. ”Um. Look. This is- well. Very unexpected for me. To say the least.” John laughs nervously, fidgets with the fabric on his trousers. ”And I’m not sure-”

Sherlock’s stomach has tightened into a sharp knot. ”I apologise,” he interrupts, not looking up from the floor on which his eyes currently are locked. ”For making you uncomfortable-”

”No,” John says, shaking his head. He takes another step into Sherlock’s space, puts both hands on his arms, gently holding them there. There’s something odd going on with John’s hands, because just as before, Sherlock feels his body relaxing at his mere touch.

Sherlock looks up, sees him smiling. ”I didn’t mean- You are most definitely not making me uncomfortable, Sherlock. Quite the opposite. I just thought that, you know. Maybe we should slow it down a bit, I don’t know, talk about… this? We’ve both had a bit to drink tonight, and also, I don’t know, exactly, how you-”

 _God, Sherlock can’t take this any longer_. It’s tearing him apart, to stand there and not have any idea what John is going to say. What does he _mean_? Why this hesitation? Does he want this or not? _Oh if people could only say what they think_ -

”Do you want to have sex with me or not?” _There._

John laughs a little again; Sherlock sees his cheeks turning pink, his pupils blown.

”I do,” he says, voice low. ”I want it more than you could possibly know.”

Happy flutter back in stomach. But after all this, must make certain. Cannot risk another _pale cast of thought_ from John, now.

”And of this you’re quite sure?”

John smiles. ”Never been more sure in my life.” He's finally pulling Sherlock close to his body again. Hands skimming over Sherlock’s back, finding their way to his buttocks, and that is enough to make Sherlock’s cock begin to fill again.

”But what about you?” John whispers, lips grazing against the skin on Sherlock’s throat, just beneath his jawline. It sends shivers through his body, makes his groin tingle. ”Because that’s what I was going to ask. I didn’t even know you liked this sort of-”

”Yes,” Sherlock says. ”I want to.”

There is nothing left of the hesitation John displayed, before. The smile on his face is gone, replaced by a very different expression. ”Good,” he whispers, then slowly runs a thumb across Sherlock’s lower lip. ”I’m glad we got that sorted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C2H5OH is the chemical formula for ethanol (alcohol).


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock pushes John backwards until the back of his knees hit the bed and he sits down. Stands between his spread legs, hands on his shoulders. Bends down to kiss him. There is nothing soft about the kisses now; Sherlock has waited long enough and the floodgates are wide open. He pushes his tongue deep inside John’s mouth, bites his lips, grasps at his hair.

”Christ, you’re a tornado, aren’t you,” John laughs.

John slips his hands inside Sherlock’s T-shirt, strokes over his back, his chest, and Sherlock feels his mouth go slack. God, John’s hands on his skin-

”Take it off,” John whispers, and Sherlock quickly rids himself of the shirt, lets it fall to the floor.

Sees John’s eyes roaming over his chest. ”You’re perfect,” John whispers. ”Beautiful…”

John runs his hands over Sherlock’s stomach, arms, sides, pecs. Pinches his nipples, hard, both at the same time.

”Ah!” Sherlock moans. Loudly, apparently.

”Shhh!” John hushes. ”Your parents, Sherlock!”

”They already think we’re fucking.” It seems this has some sort of effect on John, who inhales sharply.

”Christ, to hear you say that word,” he breathes.

John sits back to unbuckle his belt, pops the top button of his trousers open.  
”Getting tight.” A wicked smile on his face.

Sherlock bends down to kiss him again, finds his eyes constantly drawn towards John’s now open trousers, to the dark blue pants visible in the gap at the top.

John tilts forward, his hands on Sherlock’s hips. Begins to place wet kisses on his stomach. Obviously it’s not possible to be quiet when he’s doing _that_.

”Sherlock! For fuck’s sake!” John looks up, his eyes shining, and the position they’re in brings vivid images to Sherlock’s mind of another situation where John could possibly look up at him like that.

He’s getting ridiculously hard again, pants tenting just below John’s face. Could have been embarrassing but isn’t. Maybe that’s because it’s John, he thinks fleetingly.

On the - fairy few and far in between - occasions Sherlock’s had sex in recent years, it’s never been with someone he knows this well. Trusts this wholeheartedly. Had forgotten how different it was; almost like another thing all together.

Rapidly begins to unbutton John’s shirt; top three buttons and then grabs the tails and pulls it over his head. Stares. John is running his hands along Sherlock’s sides, then to the back of his thighs, his arse.

John cups his hands over his hipbones, and then greatly surprises Sherlock again by leaning forward to drag his lips over his cock, breathes hot air through the white cotton of his boxer briefs.

”Oh God,” Sherlock gasps. ”John-”

Has John ever done… _that_ , Sherlock wonders fleetingly; has he sucked cock?

The thought of it nearly shortcuts the little part of his brain that still seems to function. But he has to wonder, because… what John is doing right now, it’s impossible not to think- but John’s not.. he’s _not_. But he’s clearly- Christ- _clearly something_ -

He can’t form coherent thoughts anymore. Nothing exists now, nothing but arousal and need and an odd ache in his chest that he can’t put his finger on.

John is holding Sherlock’s hips in a steady grip, and is mouthing his cock through his pants. A dark circle has formed in the front; he’s leaking precome in no small amount. John nips at the wetness and Oh God- _(Can’t be real.)_

”Yes?” John’s fingers under the elastic of his pants. Sherlock’s speechless, so he just nods instead, once. Notices that his chest is heaving. In a swift motion, John pulls down his pants, Sherlock shakes them from his feet and then he’s standing there, in front of John, naked.

” _Fuck._ ” John also sounds like he’s running now, all out of breath even though he’s still sitting there at the edge of the bed. ”Fuck, that’s a gorgeous cock, Sherlock-”

John grabs a hold of Sherlock’s waist, as if to anchor himself for a moment. Then, he slowly runs his other hand down Sherlock’s stomach, past his hip and down to his thigh. ”Look how hard you are,” John murmurs, voice low and hoarse. ”All for me?”

Sherlock notices he’s been holding his breath. ”Yes,” he manages to whisper.

”Thank you,” John whispers back, eyes fixed on Sherlock’s cock. ”I’m so glad.”

John inches his hand closer, Sherlock can’t tear his eyes away, and then, finally, John runs his palm up over Sherlock’s length. Closes his fist around it and gives three slow, teasing pulls, running the foreskin up and down over the slick head. Sherlock grits his teeth together in a vain effort to keep quiet.

”So fucking beautiful, you are. Can’t believe we’re doing this-”

Sherlock feels dizzy.

John licks his lips, strokes a bit quicker, eyes on Sherlock’s face. He has one hand on Sherlock’s arse, the other still wrapped around his cock.

”Oh,” escapes Sherlock’s lips. ”Oh-” Squeezes his eyes shut, his whole body trembling.

”Sherlock,” John says. ”Open your eyes.”

And when he does, he sees John leaning forward and, without hesitation, taking the tip of his cock into the wet heat of his mouth, keeps stroking.

Sherlock’s knees nearly give way. His hands are in John’s hair, gripping randomly, fists opening and closing. The whimpering sound coming from his mouth sounds pained.

” _John, fuck-_ ” he whispers, and when John takes him in deeper and begins to suck, his knees actually do give way. His bodyweight shifts onto John’s head, and it unfortunately results in John choking. John pulls off; coughs hard, twice, reflexively gasps for air.

”Sorry,” Sherlock manages, his cheeks burning. ”God, sorry, didn’t mean to-”

John looks up at him, his eyes watery, Sherlock cringes when he sees it. _Why can’t he ever act just a little bit normal, not even in a situation like this-_

”No worries.” John is thankfully smiling. He flops down onto the bed, pats the empty space next to him. Sherlock lies down and John wraps an arm around him, pulls him closer. Whispers with wet lips into his ear.

”To be honest, I quite liked it.”

”You did?” Sherlock’s face is buried in the crook of John’s neck.

John takes Sherlock’s hand, pushes it against his erection. Sherlock wraps his hand around his cock, feels the hardness beneath the fabric.

”See? So unbelievable hot, Sherlock, to feel your cock down my throat-”

John kisses him, then begins to move against him again, hips undulating. Sherlock relaxes enough to allow himself to do the same. John’s breath is shaky, his hand’s gripping harder on Sherlock’s back as he speaks.

”…to _taste_ you... Your cock is beautiful- fuck, everything about you is. Wanted to suck you ’til you came.” Sherlock gasps. Sees John searching for his eyes.

”Do you want me to finish you off right now? With my mouth?” John murmurs, and there’s that tongue again, darting out to wet his lips. _How can this be happening?_

Tries to assemble some sort of coherence in his mind. ”No, this, ah- This is good, I like this.”

John smiles and then shifts to lift his hips from the bed. Pushes down his trousers and pants to his thighs. Smiles broadly, maybe because he sees Sherlock staring. And he _is_ staring, because, _God_ , John’s cock is pressed almost flat against his stomach. Foreskin completely retracted to reveal the blunt head, shiny and flushed red. Sherlock’s mouth waters, needs to swallow.

John presses their crotches together, and when Sherlock feels John’s bare cock, hot and thick and big against his own, he whimpers.

”Christ, Sherlock- ”I never- I never would have thought- this-”

They grind against each other, cocks sliding in the slippery wetness. Then John suddenly stops, sits up to take off the trousers and pants that’s been wrapped around his thighs. When he’s back, he takes them both in his hand, holds their cocks together as they keep moving.

”Fuck, John, _fuck_ ,” Sherlock groans as he begins to thrust into John’s fist. They fall into the same pace without effort.

”Love it when you talk like that,” John gasps. ”Bit naughty after all, eh, posh boy?”

More blood rushing to his groin at John’s words. Moans, presses his fingernails into the skin on John’s arm.

John keeps mumbling things into his ear, into his neck. Sherlock’s body is on fire.

Gradually, John has changed his position; is now lying almost on top of him. Sherlock moves to wrap his hand around John’s. Deep kisses; John’s tongue in his mouth, then Sherlock’s tongue in John’s. Hips moving, hard and fast; their cocks sliding against each other inside the tight fist of John’s hand.

”God, I want you so badly.” John’s voice is different; darker. Rapid puffs of air hitting Sherlock’s neck, making him shiver. ”The things I want to do to you, Sherlock, fuck, will you let me?”

”Anything,” Sherlock manages. ”Everything.”

John groans, and Sherlock closes his eyes, lets himself melt into the sensory input and the images John’s words provokes.

”Have you thought about this, about us, before?” John murmurs into his ear, then moves to bite his neck.

”Yes,” he replies, breathless. ”Yes.”

”Fuck-” John’s hips momentarily loses the rhythm. ”Wish I’d known. Would have had you everywhere-”

Sherlock feels the first surge in his groin of the inevitable. Doesn’t want to come yet but this is too much to handle.

John’s arm, the one he’s supporting himself on, is trembling from the strain. He’s stopped kissing Sherlock and is just leaning his forehead against Sherlock’s, they’re both slick with sweat, hot breath on Sherlock’s face.

”I would have given you anything you wanted, Sherlock, if I had- _fuck_ , oh fuck, I’m close-”

The whirling feeling inside Sherlock grows stronger. He squeezes his hand harder around John’s fist, fucks into it once, twice and then stills as his entire body tenses up and he’s coming in hard pulses between their bodies.

” _Yes, fuck, yes_ -” he hears John whisper. Sherlock pushes John’s hand away and replaces it with his own. Wraps his fingers around John’s cock and begins to stroke him, as hard and fast as he can manage from the position he’s in. The sound of John’s ragged breathing fills his ears.

John is bracing over him on both elbows, face buried in Sherlock’s sweat-slick neck, fucking into his hand as Sherlock keeps stroking.

”I’m coming-” John holds his breath, Sherlock can feel when he tips over the edge. The sensation of John’s warm semen over Sherlock’s hand and chest makes arousal shoot like electricity through his body again. Keeps slowly stroking as John comes down.

John slumps down next to him, exhales shakily. ”Oh _Christ_ ,” he says. ”Oh my fucking God, Sherlock, wow-”

John lifts his (non-sticky) hand to stroke away the sweat-soaked hair that has fallen over Sherlock’s eyes; runs it over his cheek. Their eyes meet. John holds the gaze for a long moment, his hand still cupping Sherlock’s face, fingertips brushing over his jaw.

For some reason, this gesture - so _intimate_ \- Sherlock doesn’t know what to make of it. Worry begins to stir in his chest again.

John’s hand brushes over Sherlock’s ear, his face so close their noses touch. He places a gentle, closed-mouthed kiss on Sherlock’s lips.

”That was… Christ, Sherlock. That was amazing. Extraordinary, so fuckin’ hot-”

”Mmm,” is all Sherlock can think to reply. Is exhausted, exhilarated but at the same time, his thoughts are beginning to pick up speed, because.. what happens now? What _was_ this? What does it _mean_?

John smiles softly, strokes Sherlock’s cheek. ”Don’t,” he says.

”What?” Sherlock whispers, unable to even speak properly.

”I know you,” John mumbles. ”Can tell when you’re getting wound up. Don’t. There’s no reason.”  
He runs his hand over Sherlock’s hair, vainly tries to push the curls in place.

Sherlock grabs his T-shirt to wipe his hand, his stomach. Wipes John’s hand too, sees John smile when he does.

***  
He’s drifting between sleep and wakefulness. They’re still lying side by side. John has an arm tightly wrapped around him, Sherlock’s face buried in John’s chest.

”I didn’t think you did… this sort of thing.” John is slowly combing his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

”You said that, before,” Sherlock mumbles into his skin.

”But you… do?”

”Do you really need to ask?” Sherlock says, and John laughs. _Endorphins released, parasympathetic nervous system activated-_

”Good point," he smiles, then turns serious again. "It's just that- I didn’t know. I thought- I thought, I don’t know- that you didn’t.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything because, really, what is there to say to this? He’s used to people assuming this about him, but still wonders why the idea of him having physical needs like everybody else is so far-fetched. Is he really that strange, that odd? Impossible to love, or even sleep with?

Even though he’s still hiding his face in John’s chest, he can feel John hesitating. A question, withheld. Sherlock waits.

”Have you- um. After Victor, have you.. Or was this, you know..?”

 _No._ He is not ready to do this, and why does John need to use this moment to bring up all kinds of difficult things? Isn’t it enough that he’s basically had his entire childhood and youth laid out on display tonight?

”I think it’s your turn to tell me something I don’t know about you,” he says.

John is silent for a while, fingers keeps brushing through his hair. ”You’re absolutely right,” he eventually says. ”Guess some things even you can’t deduce, huh?”

Was that rhetorical?

”So what do you want to know?” John says.

Many things, he thinks, but hesitates. Not certain he really wants to hear the answers, after all.

”You choose,” Sherlock says.

John is quiet again; inhales, exhales. ”Alright. I’ve never been in a relationship with a man,” he says quietly. Sherlock’s suddenly fully awake; feels his jaw clenching.

”Christ, don’t start with that again,” he snaps, lifts his head to look at John. ”You’ve been most thorough in your efforts to inform me, constantly, that you are _not gay_. However, in light of the recent events-”

”Wait,” John says, looking worried. ”Wait - please let me finish.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. ”I’m waiting.”

”I wanted to say. That while it’s true that I’ve never had a relationship with a man, I have, um. Hooked up. On several occasions, over the years.”

John is looking him in the eyes, unwavering, like what he’s just said is some kind of challenge. Maybe it is.

Sherlock’s momentarily stunned. _John’s slept with men._ The many different things this stirs in him is, well. Overwhelming.

Thinks that it’s one thing to suspect something, no matter how strongly, and a very different thing to have it so bluntly confirmed. And after all those years of John’s insistence of not being gay, he’d eventually accepted that his initial appraisal was, for once, wrong. _There’s always something_. But now-

”I don’t understand why you’ve said, over and over again, that you-”

John interrupts. ”I’ve just never- It’s never been anything more. Never any feelings involved. It was just sex. So I didn’t really, you know. Count it. I guess.”

A icy feeling is beginning to spread in his stomach. Wishes he hadn’t started this. Still unable to stop one more question from slipping out.

”What about James Sholto, then?”

Feels John tensing up. Wonders if he will lie, or maybe just avoid to answer.

”That,” John says, "was not like that.”

Sherlock doesn't understand what he means, but really doesn't want to hear more, anyway. Tries to push away the uncomfortable feeling inside.

A long stretch of silence follows. So much to think about. Too much. All that’s happened since last night, perhaps it’s taking its toll. His eyes feel heavy. Head still spinning from too much wine consumed, he feels it more now when everything around him has gone quiet.

”Hey,” John says. ”Enough with the old ghosts tonight, for both of us, yes?”

”Mmm. I agree.”

”There’s only one person in the whole world that I want to think about right now.” John’s hand begins to move through his hair again. ”Can you deduce?”

Feels himself smiling. John’s pulls him closer against his body. Sherlock inhales the scent of John, of his body, of the remnants of the sex they’ve just had.

It’s so nice, so warm to be under the duvet and so close to John. He allows himself to relax. ”Obvious.”

John chuckles, places another kiss in his hair. ”Not called a genius for nothing.”

***  
Has drifted off when he feels the mattress shift. John sits up, finds his pants and puts them on. Climbs over Sherlock and goes to turn the lamp off. Sherlock moves to make space for John as he crawls back into the bed. The room is bathed in darkness. John’s arm finds its way around him again, and Sherlock willingly relaxes into the embrace. Another kiss on the lips; soft, gentle.

”Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” John whispers.

”Merry Christmas, John,” he mumbles back. Puts his hand on John’s chest, over his heart. Falls asleep to the rhythm of John’s steady heartbeats.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very brief reference to self-harm in this chapter.

Horribly bright daylight is trickling in through the gaps at the sides of the curtains. Did he draw them last night? No recollection of that.

Mouth dry. Behind his eyes, a dull, throbbing ache. Sherlock turns around in the bed; away from the window to face the wall instead. Pulls the duvet over his head but has to resurface when a wave of nausea hits him. Sweat beading on his forehead. Needs air.

Takes one deep breath, then another. _Christ_. This is why he shouldn’t drink that much. No - in fact, this is why he shouldn’t drink at all. Resolves to never drink another drop of alcohol again.

The old alarm clock on the nightstand shows 11.35. Is alone in bed. _Where’s John?_

Oh God, oh God. _John_. A rush of excitement shoots through his spine. It finally happened, after all these bloody years. Feels his heart rate increase, his chest expand at the thought.

Flickers through images in his mind - the way their bodies had moved together- the taste of John’s skin - the overload of all his senses when John had taken him into his mouth- John’s come on his hand, his chest-

Realises he’s naked. Slept naked, next to John. A vague memory of waking up, briefly, to move in closer. Had wedged a leg in between John’s thighs, felt his soft cock beneath thin cotton. Drifted back into sleep again; warm, safe, happy.

Everything had felt so _right_ , so natural, so easy, in the protection of darkness and inebriation. But now… A whirl of worry is beginning to pick up speed in his stomach. _What now?_

Where _is_ John? Didn’t notice him getting up. Why has he left? Everything had been so much better if he’d been here, because then he’d been able to assess how John is going to go about it all, now, after… after all this.

Had expected to wake up with John. Had just assumed he’d be there, right next to him. Smiling, reassuring. But- what if-

…what if John _didn’t_ wake up happy and smiling? What if this didn’t mean the same thing for him, at all, what if-

A pinging sound; John’s text alert. The sound that has been driving Sherlock mad, these last two days and- who has John been texting? Sherlock has just pushed it away - didn’t want to think about it, but-

Forces himself to get out of bed. Finds his pants and his T-shirt, puts them on. Ignores the nausea and the headache and stumbles over to John’s phone, plugged into a charger by the desk.

Picks it up and sees the notification on the screen.

 _Rebecca J._  
_iMessage_

Who the hell is that? Nobody John’s mentioned, which makes it more concerning. Holds the phone in his hand for a moment. Yes, no? Yes.

John’s passcode ridiculous as usual (Rosie’s birthdate, first try). A tight band around his chest, restricting his breathing as he opens the message.

_Hi John, hope u survived Xmas at your mate’s house :). Would love to see u soon. Text me :) xoxo R._

Begins to scroll. The knot in stomach gets tighter as he sees the amount of texts exchanged; weeks and weeks of flirty conversation. How could he be so stupid to allow himself to think-

 _It was just sex_. That was what John had said, last night. Now he remembers. _Never any feelings involved, with men. Didn’t count._

Sherlock’s throat feels restricted, he raises his head too fast and then squints in pain as a sharp ache stabs him behind his eyes. _God, John had told him, hadn’t he?_

Was there really no end to his own stupidity? They both had had too much to drink, and John had tried to stop him, tried to tell him before it went too far, but Sherlock had just pushed on and-

There might have been a point in time when Sherlock would have happily accepted just about anything at all to have John back in his life again. A time when the idea of having John back both as a friend and as a- as some sort of- friend _with benefits_ \- would have seemed almost too good to be true.

But now he knows. _That could never work_. Sharing John with someone else, it would tear him apart.

Deletes the last message. Continuous effort to school his breathing, to keep the anxiety from escalating into panic. Inhales, then holds his breath. Exhales.

Thinks that there’s still a chance that he’s wrong. Thinks about how John had looked at him, last night. How his hand had brushed over Sherlock’s cheek. How that definitely had not seemed devoid of feelings.

Rubs his eyes, runs his hands through his hair. Apparently, hope really _is_ the last thing that leaves man. Decides to pull himself together, get dressed and go out there to find out.

***  
The house is unusually quiet, and since Sherlock’s brain can’t ever take a fucking break, he quickly adds up the clues to arrive at the conclusion that they have gone on some kind of walk. Thinks that a glass of orange juice would probably do him good, so he moves towards the kitchen.

Stops outside the doorway when he hears voices. Ah. Caroline. And John. Stayed at the house to clear up after the late (but not late enough) breakfast.

Smells coffee and bacon, suddenly recognises that curious sensation of actually being hungry. Still hesitates, though, because- how should he act? Had preferred greatly to get a moment alone with John. Thinks that perhaps he should wait until that’s possible.

He’s about to leave to go back to bed for a while, when he hears his name mentioned. Stops. Over the tap running and the porcelain clinking, it’s not that easy to make out exactly what they’re saying. He leans back against the wall, stands absolutely still. Hears John talking.

”…no, but in retrospect, I think she was jealous.”

”At Sherlock?” Caroline’s voice is easier to hear, the pitch more distinguished from the noise in the kitchen. Sherlock nervously waits to see where this conversation is headed.

John says something Sherlock can’t hear, and then Caroline’s talking again.

”It’s difficult with exes. My ex-husband and I, we went back and forth for years before finally making the cut for good. Kept trying, for the girls… This is your first Christmas without Rosie, yes?”

John must have nodded, he thinks.

”It’s hard, I know,” Caroline says. Another pause. ”Any chance that the two of you might patch it up?”

Sherlock’s stomach twists into knots again. This question has topped his list of concerns, ever since they ran into each other outside of Harrods that night. He holds his breath while waiting for John’s reply.

”No,” John says. ”Won’t happen.”

Sherlock exhales. _Good._ That’s very good.

”Never say never, John. When you have a child that young together; sometimes you find your way back to each other, anyway. Might be worth it, if there’s a way.”

Begins to feel quite angry at Caroline.

”No,” John says again, firmly this time and Sherlock allows himself to relax just a little bit again. ”No, this is final. I’ve, you know. Moved on.”

”You’ve met someone? So soon after your divorce?”

”Well. Yes.”

 _What?_ Sherlock’s heart stops.

Caroline misses a beat before she replies, Sherlock hears a held back hesitation in her voice.  
”Ah. Right. Is it serious?”

Sherlock can’t breathe.

”It’s-,” John begins. ”A bit soon to say, but- yes. I think it might be. At least I very much hope so.”

Sherlock’s heart, dropping like a ten ton weight in his chest. _Rebecca_. The one with all the texts. She must be the one John is referring to. Feels sick.

”Does Sherlock know?”

An odd silence follows, before John replies.

”To be honest, I’m not entirely sure he does.”

And then John begins to laugh, he actually _laughs_ , and _Christ_ , he never took John for cruel but this-

A moment later, Caroline starts to laugh, too. They’re in there, laughing together at his inadequacies and social shortcomings, and Sherlock closes his eyes in a vain attempt to protect himself from the sharp pain inside.

”Oh my God, John,” he hears her say, then more laughter. ”Then he probably doesn’t.”

A memory pops up: Nine years old. Sitting in a wooden, uncomfortable chair outside the headmaster’s office, making out bits and pieces of his parents’ and teachers’ discussion about _what to do with Sherlock_. It wasn’t the first time, and it wasn’t the last.

John says something Sherlock can’t hear, again, and then he can’t hear what Caroline says, either, and maybe that’s because it’s very difficult to focus now. His cheeks are burning, although the humiliation is not the worst thing about all this, not by far.

”That’s grand, John, absolutely brilliant,” Caroline says, her voice genuinely happy now and Sherlock doesn’t even want to know what she’s referring to. What’s _brilliant?_ Is John getting fucking engaged again or something?

Sherlock’s entire body is screaming for him to just get away from there. Can’t, though. Needs to hear more; stands there as if he’d been frozen in place.

”Yeah, I think so too,” John says, Sherlock can tell from his voice that he’s smiling. ”Just a bit sad that it took me so long to get there.”

Sherlock’s clenching his fists together so hard the knuckles are getting white. John can’t be fucking serious. From what Sherlock could gather from the texts, they haven’t known each other for more than a couple of months, at most.

”John,” Caroline says. Sherlock’s leaning against the wall, his knees feel weak. ”Listen. You really need to have a chat with Sherlock. Tell him to his face. You know, for all his brilliance… he’s just not very good at reading between the lines.”

”I’m well aware,” John says.

”It may be obvious to the rest of us, but- I’m not so sure it is, for him.”

”Yeah,” John says. ”You’re right. I should probably talk to him. Prevent any… misunderstandings.”

Sherlock has heard enough. Quickly turns around and makes his way up the stairs again. Throws himself onto the bed. There’s a thick lump in his throat that can’t be swallowed away.

***  
There’s a knock on the door, just once, and then John comes into the room without waiting for a reply. Hears him stroll up to the bed.

”Hey,” he says. ”You awake under there?”

Considers what to say. Realises it’s probably pointless to pretend to sleep, would only result in John trying to wake him up.

”Mmpf,” he says. Stays under the duvet. His heart is quickly picking up speed again.

Hears John chuckle. Christ, how can he be so… so _normal_ about this, it’s like what happened didn’t affect him at all. _It was just sex. Didn’t count._

”How’re you feeling?” John sits down on the edge of the bed, puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He involuntarily startles a little when he feels John’s hand.

Thinks that maybe this is why John’s had so many sexual partners - because he’s able to just separate it, like he’s doing now. Go back to normal, still be _friends_. Hook up once in a while when the mood strikes. All those things that Sherlock has never been able to do.

John grabs a corner of the duvet, uncovers his face. Doesn’t know where to look.

”A bit much last night, eh?” John reaches out to presumably touch his hair, but pulls back his hand when Sherlock flinches.

What was a bit much? The alcohol or- or the sex? Suddenly feels angry at John. As far as Sherlock can recall, John was a most willing participant.

”Anyway,” John says, in a gentle voice. ”I brought you some tea and toast. It’s on the desk.”

Wishes John would stop being so nice. ”Cheers,” he mumbles.

Looks up at John and sees his face. There’s nervousness there, he can tell by the slight wrinkle between John’s eyebrows and the way he straightens his back. Realises he’s just going to get right down to business - _oh fuck_ -

John inhales sharply. ”Look, Sherlock, I know this isn’t the best timing, but as you know, I have to leave soon. Promised to pick up Mary and Rosie at the airport.”

 _God._ Sherlock had completely forgotten.

”And I.. um. Things happened so fast last night, and I- I thought- I really don’t want to part without being upfront with you about-”

 _No_. He just can’t take this. Sits up abruptly in the bed. ”John. I know what you are going to say, and frankly, I’d rather you just didn’t.”

Sees John’s expression change, and for a moment, it looks like he’s actually been able to stun him. But that was his intention, after all. Because he does not want to sit there like a pathetic loser and listen to John apologising, explaining; wrapping hurtful things in nice words so they won’t sound as ugly.

Takes John a good five seconds to form a reply. ”You… know what I’m going to say?”

”Yes. Of course I do. An idiot would.”

John is opening and closing his mouth for a while. Maybe he _is_ a goldfish. Maybe Mycroft was right. Sees all the small muscles in John’s face tense, sees his shoulders draw up.

”Alright,” John says, slowly. ”And you… don’t want me to say it?”

”Is that a question, or are you just going to keep repeating like a parrot?”  
The anger helps. Makes it so much easier to just get this over and done with.

”Sherlock-” John blinks, worries his lip. ”Why are you so angry with me? What’s wrong? I’m sorry but I just don’t understand?”

”Well, that’s new,” Sherlock mumbles, then thinks that maybe he’s being unnecessarily vicious.

”Look, John. While I appreciate- erm. What happened was-” Sherlock’s voice breaks a little bit, damn it, but John can probably just chalk that up on the hangover.

”What happened was fine; a good time was had by all, I believe, and that’s all there’s to it. Let’s not make a mountain out of a molehill here.”

John stares at him. Sherlock does his very best to stare back. _Just a little longer now, hold on-_

”I don’t know what to say,” John says. ”I thought… I thought that you felt-”

”Don’t be ridiculous. It was just sex.”

John stands up but is still hesitating. _What the hell will it take to get him to leave?_ Sherlock thinks that he can’t keep this up for much longer.

”Please, John. Do us both a favour and just go.”

And that finally gets John moving. He’s pressing his lips tight together, straightens his back once more.

”If that’s how you want it,” he says quietly. Begins in slow motion to pick up his scattered things from the room. Sherlock’s eyes sting with stupid tears, he flops down on the bed again, faces the wall.

John stops in the doorway on his way out. Sherlock can hear him draw a breath - he was going to say something but changed his mind. Maybe just as well.

Eventually, he hears the car leaving the driveway.

***  
When Sherlock was in prep school, he’d used to bite himself, sometimes, when the unrest inside threatened to eat him alive. Now, he just lies there.

A seven percent solution of cocaine. That would have been the answer, not too long ago. But he’s decided never again - and right now he doesn’t even have a fucking sedative, anyway.

The only option left is to pull the duvet up over his head again. He closes his eyes. Thinks that happy endings only exist in fairytales. Thinks that he has been _so fucking stupid_.


	20. Chapter 20

John takes a seat at one of the small, round tables by the window. He’d greatly preferred the pub over Costa, of course, but no. He’s drawn a firm line about that for himself. No drinking during the days that Rosie is with him.

But he had to get out, just had to. Granted, he’s never felt at home in the beige little flat he is currently renting, but these last five days it’s been unbearable to spend even a minute more than absolutely needed there.

He holds the coffee cup in his hand, but doesn’t drink. Stares with unseeing eyes out the window, out over the grey street. The snow has turned into a dirty slush, covering the almost empty market square in front of the coffee shop. Fleetingly wonders, for the hundredth time, how the hell he ended up here in this dull, lifeless corner of the earth.

Two hours until he’s picking up Rosie from the birthday party, and he’s not sure if that time spent alone with his own thoughts is for better or worse. Maybe it doesn’t matter. It’s impossible to find a way to stop rehashing, regardless.

Again and again and again, he’s mulling over everything that happened and how it all went so wrong. It’s pointless, he knows it is. Has not been able to find a why; only knows that the current situation feels like a noose around his neck. How could he have misread the situation so completely?

Did he overwhelm Sherlock? Or did Sherlock, in fact, feel that John had taken advantage of his drunken state - maybe he’d been much worse off than it had seemed? _Oh God_. If there was one thing John was fairly certain he had never done, it was to have sex that wasn’t entirely consensual. He closes his eyes against the thought, as if that could help.

Or was it wrong to show his hand so quickly? Perhaps he should have held back his feelings a bit more? Maybe if he hadn’t tried to have that conversation - but then again, Sherlock seemed pissed off with him before he’d even began. No way to know.

Sherlock has not called, not texted. Of course he hasn’t. John knows he’s a fool for hoping. Does, anyway.

So when his phone suddenly pings, John’s heart still leaps up in his throat. He scoops it up from his pocket in some sort of supersonic speed, only to breathe out in disappointment one second later.

It’s from Rebecca. He opens it, sees a long, long message on the screen. Sighs.

_Hi John, I just wanted to say that I miss our conversations, had sort of gotten used to them. I realise that perhaps we’re not on the same page, but I have to say I still thought you’d at least return my message (if only to say so). Well, anyway. If you change your mind, you know where to find me. I wish you the best and a happy new year. R._

He stares at the screen for a moment, tries to think back. Can’t remember seeing anything from her, lately. Although, given the massive amount of texts he’s received from Rosie the last week… maybe it got lost somewhere between those?

Startles again when his phone rings, he’s still holding it in his hand. Feels the same stupid hope ignite, before his stomach sinks once more.

”Hi Harry, what’s up?” He notices that his left hand trembles, which is hasn’t done for years and years. _Shit, does that bloody thing have to come back now, too-_

”Just wanted to check in to see how you’re doing.”

He’s not really up for talking, and somehow, the harsh daylight makes it even harder. Still glad that he and Harry have been able to get to this point. To actually care enough about each other to bother. After a near lifetime of not getting on, Rosie really came in as a turning point in their relationship. Somehow, she made it possible for them to find a way back into each others’ lives again.

The other night, when Rosie had been since long tucked into bed, he’d phoned her up to actually talk - maybe for the first time ever, he just couldn’t remember. But she’d listened, patiently and without judgement, and for the rest of that evening, his skin had been crawling a lot less.

”Yeah, thanks,” he says. ”Been better, to be honest.”

”Did you call him?”

A man comes up and gestures questioningly about the empty chair at his table; John nods a distracted yes.

”Um. No.” On the other end of the line, he hears Harry sigh.

”John, I know how much this means to you, and I really think you should-”

”There’s no point, alright!” Notices he’s spoken a bit too loud, sees the mother in the family next to him turn to him with an annoyed look in her eyes. Lowers his voice to a near whisper.

”Look, Harry. I appreciate you trying to help, but there is nothing I can say that will change anything. As I said before, he made his position quite clear. Asked me to get the hell out of there, in fact.”

She’s silent for a moment. ”Fair enough. I guess you know this best.” She pauses for a moment. ”Maybe Sherlock just isn’t… capable of feeling things like that."

”But that’s the thing, I don’t think that’s true. I’m pretty sure he does feel things, a lot of things, maybe just… just not towards me.” John pauses as the words take form, the weight in his stomach grows heavier. ”I was mistaken to think it meant something.”

"Still, though," she says. "That’s no excuse for him to fuck you up like this. He must have known how you’d react. Pisses me off, to be honest.”

He sighs, heavily. "Harry, please don't-"

”I’m sorry." She's speaking in a soft tone that he's not at all used to, from her. It's making him cringe. Thankfully, she then changes the subject.

”So, what about tomorrow night, then? Are you sure you don’t want to come over? It will just be a couple of friends, nothing fancy.”

”No. I mean, thank you, but I’m good. Not really up for a party.”

”But it’s New Year’s Eve,” Harry says. ”Just going to sit there in your gloomy little place, then, alone with the bottle?”

John has to stop himself from making a remark about how that’s how Harry’s spent the majority of practically all her evenings up until just a few years ago.

”That’s the plan, more or less.”

”Oh, John… Well, if you change your mind, you know where to go.”

She means well, but _Christ_ how he hates her pity. Hates to feel like such a miserable, lonely failure.

And although he knows he shouldn’t, there’s also something else in all this that’s making his skin crawl. _Shame._

He's never before talked to anyone about his attraction to men. What he’d said to Sherlock - it had been the first time he’d ever said the words out loud.

Harry had seen it, though, despite his frantic efforts to conceal it. Had teased him about it, relentlessly, when they were still living under the same roof. And he had hated her for it; hated her with a burning intensity he’d rarely felt neither before nor after.

It was only later, much later, when they were both grown up, that he’d been able to think that maybe she’d been angry with him, too. Angry for not being honest, and for leaving her alone to shoulder the full time position as the black sheep at home.

As Dad’s drunken days increased, so did Harry’s absence from home. She stayed away from school, too, sometimes for days on end. Made the wrong kind of friends. When she’d come home to introduce her first girlfriend, it had been the final straw for Dad.

Seventeen years old and kicked out of the house. Sometimes John would see her, sitting in the park with her friends, drinking and smoking weed in broad daylight. He’d walked detours to avoid her. If he’d run into her when he was with someone, he'd looked away. Pretended he didn’t know her.

John had spent the remaining years at home studying like mad, with music blasting on the stereo to cancel out the sounds from Dad’s drunken fits downstairs. Locked himself in the bedroom he no longer had to share; daydreaming of a different life. Counting the days until he could finally, finally move out and be free.

And all the while when Harry was busy spiralling more and more out of control, he - the well-adjusted, normal, golden boy- had sailed into Med School on a full scholarship and with a string of pretty girlfriends in his wake.

_Not gay._

***

”Rosie, pumpkin. Please.” He’s standing in the doorway to Rosie’s bedroom, where she’s been lying flat on the bed screaming for the last ten minutes.

”No! Go away! I’m not going to go!”

John leans his head against the doorframe, stifles a frustrated sigh. Tries really hard to control his temper, but Lord knows it’s not easy. Worst part is, he knows perfectly well that Rosie’s gotten this from him.

”Sweetheart. I know you will have a great time at Mummy’s, as soon as you get there. There will be a fun party, with nice people you know, and I'm sure you'll get to stay up as late as you want - it’s New Year’s Eve, remember?”

”No! I don’t want to go!” She’s kicking her legs against the mattress in frustration and anger.

John searches for things to say. They’re already late and Mary is waiting.

”Emily will be there, yeah? You always have so much fun together. Maybe the two of you can watch a film or something, while the grown-ups have dinner."

”I don’t care about Emily and I don't care about the stupid party!”

He walks up to her bed, sits down next to her, which makes her yell even louder.

”No! Go AWAY!! I HATE you! You’re mean and stupid and I won’t go!”

Sees tears streaming down her flushed face, feels his heart break a little. This is hard for her. Hard for him, as well. Feels his frustration change, soften around the edges.

He runs his hand over her back, over her messy blonde hair. She’s crying less now, he can feel her tiny frame relaxing. Leans down, so that they’re face to face.

”Hey. Watson.”

It had been what Sherlock had called her. John had loved it, and never stopped using it, although he saved it for a special occasions and mostly said it when Mary was not around. ”I know this is hard for you. And I’m so sorry for that.”

She looks up to meet his eyes, sniffles loudly. ”Why can’t you and Mummy be together?”

He feels his chest tighten, strokes her soft cheek. ”It’s a bit difficult to explain. I promise I'll try, when you’re a little older. But we both love you, very, very much. And that will never change.”

She throws her skinny arms around his neck, and they sit like that for a long moment, until John decides to try to lighten things up again. Tickles her until she howls with laughter.

”Come on, sweetie. You have places to go and people to meet.”

***

”Hi my darling, oh how Mummy's missed you!!”

They’re standing in the small hallway, where Rosie’s thrown herself on Mary like a little monkey, arms and legs wrapped around her.

John squares his shoulders, stands back to let them finish their ceremony. It’s always a bit weird, returning to the house they used to share, but it’s gradually getting better.

When Rosie’s run inside the house to greet the beloved stuffed animals left behind, Mary comes up to him where he’s standing by the door.

”How are you?” The question is asked out of politeness, and he returns the favour. A bit stiff, still, but he much prefers that to the viciousness that had basically become a habit before they moved apart.

”John,” she says, her voice lowered. ”There’s something I want to just mention. And you don’t have to answer right now - just think about it for a while, alright?”

He feels his body tensing. Shit, she’s met someone and she’s going to introduce Rosie-

”What is it?”

”Well, I-” Mary seems nervous, looks down, then up at him again. ”I’ve gotten a job offer in London.”

”Oh,” he says, thoughts suddenly taking a very different direction.

”I haven’t accepted, of course, I’d never- But I just thought- Most of my friends are still there, and Rosie knows quite a few of their kids as well, you know, and I was just thinking that you've never really seemed to like it here, and maybe-”

She stops, looks at him anxiously.

He exhales. ”You beat me to it. As usual.” He smiles, and Mary smiles back, happily.

***

”Rosie! Come say goodbye to Daddy!”

When Rosie's back, Mary smiles at him, and it’s a lot less tense this time. ”I’ll leave you to it, then. John, I- I hope you’ll have a great evening. Happy new year.”

”Happy new year, Mary,” he says, then turns to Rosie as Mary’s walking out towards the kitchen.

”Sweetie, come here.” He sits down on his knees, stretches his arms out and she runs up to him, squeezes him as hard as her tiny arms can manage.

”Daddy?”

He looks at her and sees her happy face has changed into a sad one. ”What?”

”I’m sorry that I said that I hate you. I don’t hate you at all.”

He runs his hand over her hair. ”You don’t have to apologise for that, sweetie. I know you don’t.”

”It was mean of me to say that. I feel bad.”

”Honey, no. You should not feel bad about that. We all say things now and then that we don’t mean, when we’re upset. I’ve done it, too. Lots of times.”

”Why? Why do we do that?”

”Well, I’m not sure. I guess it’s a way of protecting ourselves when we feel angry, or sad, or hurt by someone we love-”

He stops abruptly, mid-sentence. ”Oh God.”

”What? What is it, Daddy?” Rosie looks at him, confused. ”What?”

”Um.” He tries to gather his thoughts enough to answer. ”Nothing, sweetheart, I just came to think of something-”

He stands, lifts her up, gives her one last hug. Tries to appear relaxed even though his heart is beating violently.

”Go have fun now. It will be a great party, I know it. See you next year, alright my darling?”

”Next YEAR?” Rosie says indignantly, then understands. Clever, clever little girl, John thinks proudly.

She laughs. ”See you next year, Daddy!”

***

As soon as the front doors shuts behind him, he takes out his phone. Checks the last texts in the thread with Rebecca, just to confirm what he already knows - it’s the ones he sent the day after their dinner. Nothing from her after that. _At least not on his phone._

He begins to walk, then run, towards the main street and the train station. _God, he’s been an idiot._

 


	21. Chapter 21

Outside King’s Cross it’s close to chaos, and it takes John a good half hour to get a hold of a taxi. The collective buzz of New Year’s Eve is vibrating in the crowd, people everywhere, dressed up and on their way out into the London night. His shoulders drop a bit as he inhales the scent, takes in the well known sounds. This is home, always has been, will always be. He walks for a couple of minutes before finally managing to hail a car.

”Baker Street, please.” So familiar the words, so right in his mouth.

The ride should only take about fifteen minutes, but the traffic is bad and the car is creeping forward, ever so slowly. He can’t sit still, keeps wiggling his feet, drumming his fingers against the worn leather seat.

Leaves a generous tip, then exits. His mouth is dry, his breath shaky as he backs away a few steps on the pavement to gaze up the windows. Notices the compact darkness inside, but thinks he can’t be sure. Walks up to the door to ring it.

Nothing.

Rings again. Knocks. He looks up, hoping to see the curtains move, but they don’t. Feels his heart sink to the ground. He’s not there.

***  
John waits, because it’s the only viable option he can think of. The sandstone entrance steps are not much to sit on, but it’s not like it comes close to the top ten of uncomfortable ways he’s spent a night wake.

Sits there in the cold as the hours pass. Thinks about Afghanistan, and about night shifts in the A&E at Bart’s, when he was fresh out of Med School and terrified of the sudden responsibility placed upon his shoulders. Thinks about the stakeouts with Sherlock, the ones they laughed about together just a few nights ago.

Unreal, how much has changed since then.

Whenever John allows himself to think about it, something akin to a vortex is picking up speed in his stomach. All those years. All the unrest, the frustration, the longing for something he could not quite put his finger on. Now he knows. This was the missing piece. And now that he has finally found it, there’s just no way he can let it go.

Now and then, groups of people pass by. Perfume and cigarette smoke, laughter and chatter, the clacking of high heels on the pavement. From Marylebone Road, more noise; people and traffic.

A quick glance at his wrist watch, it’s eleven thirty already. He’s been sitting there for almost four hours now.

_Where is he?_

John’s hasn’t allowed himself to dwell too much on that, until now. Tried his best to keep at a distance the uninvited images of Sherlock at some New Year’s party, surrounded by all kinds of people who might decide to just… _give it a try_.

He rests his head against the front door, closes his eyes as fireworks begins to explode somewhere in the distance. Hears people cheering. Thinks that he has no fucking idea how this year will turn out. Thinks about Sherlock. Wonders again where he's at.

Against better judgement, he takes out his phone. Ignores a couple of texts wishing him a happy new year, all hyperbole and emoticons.

_Happy new year, Sherlock. Wish you were here. JW_

***  
He doesn’t expect a reply, and there is none.  
***  
Must have dosed off, despite the fact that he’s now chilled to the bone. But he starts awake because of the instinctive feeling that he’s being watched. Looks up to see Sherlock looming in front of him, swaying.

”Sherlock!” John is on his feet in no time, and it’s too dark for him to be able to properly make out any details of Sherlock’s features, but he immediately notices his disheveled appearance. Sherlock just stands there, shifting his weight from one foot to another, trying to keep his balance from what it looks like.

”John?”

”Are you drunk? High?” John moves his hand reflexively to put his fingers on Sherlock’s pulse point below his jaw, then pulls back abruptly when his fingers come into contact with the all too well-known warm stickiness.

”Christ,” John gasps, then grabs Sherlock by his upper arms to twist his body towards the faint light coming from a nearby lamppost. Blackish blood, mostly coagulated, in a trail from somewhere around his left temple and down over the side of his face and neck. Blood stains on his white shirt collar. ”What the hell has happened to you?”

”Was, um. Fight.” Sherlock’s speech is a bit mumbled, but he does sound sober. ”Not… too bad.”

”Not too bad? You’re bleeding, for fuck’s sake, what the-”

John keeps twisting and turning him around to see better, to be able to evaluate, but the light is too poor. Takes up his phone and turns the flashlight on. A quick check of the wound, and then he aims the light into Sherlock’s eyes to check his pupillary response ( _normal_ ).

Sherlock puts a hand over his eyes, turns away slightly.

”Stop… fussing,” he says, but with no real emphasis behind the words.

Despite it all, this makes John chuckle. ”Sorry, no can do.” He puts his phone back into his pocket, nods towards the front door. ”Come on, then.”

***  
The scene is so familiar: Sherlock, sitting on the toilet seat, head leaned back against the tiled wall. He has his eyes closed, occasionally squeezing them shut harder from pain.

John is systematically combing through his hair, dirty from God knows what. At the temple, there are chunks of hair lumped together by dried blood. John wets a flannel with water and some soap, and uses it to dissolve the knots, carefully dabbing it around the laceration in Sherlock’s scalp.

They’re so close; John’s thigh keeps brushing against Sherlock’s arm, his palm in Sherlock’s hair as he keeps working. Perfectly innocent, neutral touches but now, John is acutely aware of each and every one of them. Aware of how, when they’re in this position, his groin is only inches away from Sherlock’s face, from his perfect mouth… And though he tries hard to think of something else, vivid memories from their night together keep flashing through his mind. Memories of touching Sherlock, of tasting him, _Christ_ -

The flat is covered in a soft, muffled silence, their breathing the only sound to be heard. Just the two of them, together in this place where the edges between past and the present seem to blur.

Sherlock hasn’t said anything about that night, or about his complete radio silence all these days after, and neither has John, yet. The current situation took precedence and, to be honest, John feels no urgency to pop this comfortable bubble that they’re in.

When Sherlock looks up at him, ever so briefly before closing his eyes again, it makes something inside of John ache. He thinks that Sherlock looks so, so tired, deep lines around his weary eyes. And for the first time ever, it dawns on John that not even Sherlock Holmes is immune to ageing.

A given, of course, but still, the thought is unsettling somehow. An unwelcome reminder of time lost, and of future time diminishing at what seems like a steadily increasing pace.

”What was it?” John finally asks, his words spoken quietly but feel loud as they shatter the silence that’s surrounded them up until now.

”Beer can. Unopened.”

”Uh huh…?” John waits, but Sherlock does not volunteer anything more.

”And it attacked you all by itself, or…?”

”Yes. Yes it did.”

John sighs. ”It’s New Year’s Eve. You should’ve given yourself some time off, instead of spending it running around town chasing criminals.”

Sherlock huffs. ”It’s just a day like any other, randomly assigned an unjustified importance.”

John doesn’t reply, just keeps untangling the hair, quietly thankful that at least it was a fairly clean object and not a shoe or something. When most of the grime is cleaned off, he’s able to get a better view of the actual cut.

”Hm. Could probably use a stitch or two.” He knows Sherlock will never agree to be dragged off somewhere for that; not in a million years. Still, the doctor in him can’t refrain from saying it.

”Nonsense,” comes the expected reply.

”It’s gaping a bit, and still bleeding.” John pokes around the edges, moves around wet locks of hair. ”Got any superglue?”

”What am I, a nursery school project? Want some glitter as well?” Sherlock still keeps his eyes shut, but for the first time this night, John can see the corners of his mouth raising ever so slightly.

”Saved a great many soldiers from bleeding out in Vietnam, you know. Press here.” John guides Sherlock’s hand to press on the flanell.

Sherlock looks up, and John feels a strange mix of warmth and worry in his chest as their eyes meet.

”Really, John. I will hardly bleed to death from a small cut in my head.”

”Didn’t say you would,” he says as he begins to exit the small bathroom to go rummage through the kitchen drawers for the glue he’s certain he’s seen there, somewhere. ”But sepsis is a bitch.”

***  
Coming back, a small tube of superglue successfully retrieved, John senses that the atmosphere has changed. Sherlock is still sitting where he left him, but is not looking up when he reenters the room. Choses to ignore it, and quickly sets to work bringing the edges of the cut together, as best as the circumstances allow.

”There,” he says, a few minutes later, all passed in complete silence. ”Give it a moment, and then I’d suggest you get in the shower. You can rinse your hair, but don’t touch the cut.”

He steps back, but Sherlock is still sitting there, not moving. John goes to wash his hands.

”Why are you here?”

John startles at Sherlock’s voice and the hint of anger there. When he turns his head to look at Sherlock, he sees something that looks like… tired defiance.

Opens his mouth to answer, but Sherlock goes on, apparently getting more and more fired up as he speaks.

”I realise it might not appear that way, given, well, this-” he gestures towards his head - ”but I am fully capable of taking care of myself. And I know you love being the good samaritan, but really, John - there’s a point where consideration crosses into pity. And I think I made it very clear that I have no interest in being on the receiving end of that.”

Sherlock sighs heavily. ”So please spare that for your patients and your new girlfriend, because I really don’t-”

John finally manages to get his thoughts in order enough to stop this litany. He turns back from the sink, proceeds to kneel in front of Sherlock to be level with his face.

”I want you to listen up now, alright? I came here tonight because I wanted to say something important to you, and the last time I tried, you wouldn’t let me.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and then looks away. ”Oh please, for Christ’s sake, how many times do I have to say that I don’t want to-”

”SHUT UP, okay, Sherlock!” John realises he’s shouting, takes a breath to calm down. Continues in a softer voice. ”Just- shut up.” Sherlock raises his eyebrows but is actually quiet for a while, thankfully. ”You really are clueless sometimes, know that?”

In the midst of all this absurdity, John feels laughter threatening to bubble up inside of him. Tries his best not to show it.

”Listen,” John says. ”Someone very smart has taught me that it is a capital mistake to draw conclusions before you have all the facts, yes?”

Sherlock nods, and John sees his expression beginning to shift, from oppositional to wondering. Good.

”Right. And why? Well, because if you do, you’ll unwisely start to twist the facts to suit your theories, instead of the theories to suit the facts.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything more, just sits there, waiting. John goes on.

”And the key to avoiding that fallacy is..?”

”To get a clear picture of the relevant facts,” Sherlock says, in a very quiet, mumbled voice. 

”Very good. And so in this particular instance, I wonder - what exactly did you think I was going to say, that morning when I came in?”

Sherlock is blinking rapidly, hesitating a long moment before he replies. ”I don’t know.”

”Thank you. Thank you for admitting that. You thought you did, I know that. But as it turns out, you didn’t. And so what can you do when you don’t know?”

”Learn the facts.”

”Yes. Brilliant.” John holds the gaze, tries to smile. ”So - go ahead, then.”

Sherlock looks confused. ”What?”

”Ask me.”

John takes in the sight of Sherlock: wet messy hair, wet bloodstained shirt. Trousers covered with something that looks like mud. He’s sitting slumped down on the toilet lid in this old, small bathroom, there are dark blue circles underneath his eyes. John thinks that he looks so… lost. Vulnerable and defensive, young and old, weak and strong; all in a great big jumble.

And suddenly, the weight of this moment comes crashing down upon John. His throat is restricted, he feels the blood pounding in his ears. So many years, so many chances, forever lost.

The past is in the past, and no amount of regret or rumination will change that. But maybe, hopefully, the future will take a different turn - starting right now.

Apparently he is not the only one feeling this, because he notices, with surprise, that the lower rims of Sherlock’s silvery eyes are beginning to fill.

Without thinking, John finds himself reaching out to touch Sherlock’s cheek. This time, Sherlock doesn’t flinch.

”What were you going to say?” Sherlock asks, his voice quiet, low.

”I’m so glad you asked. I was going to say-”

A lump is forming in his throat, and in his stomach, a terrifying, big swirl of emotions is growing stronger. He swallows.

”I was going to say that I hope you know. That I love you. I think I always have.”

 _There_. He’s said it. John becomes aware that he has averted his eyes, so he looks up again. Sees that Sherlock’s cheeks are now wet from silent tears. Hears him breathing much too fast, notices that his hands and legs are trembling.

”Hey,” he says, lets his hand travel to Sherlock’s arm, rubs it; down, up, down again. ”Hey-”

He’s interrupted by Sherlock, lunging forward, pressing his open lips against John’s mouth, and it doesn’t take John long to lean in to kiss him back.


	22. Chapter 22

Eventually, they manage to make their way from the hard tiles of the bathroom floor to Sherlock’s bed.

In the soft light from the bedside lamp, John thinks that Sherlock looks almost ethereal, with his pale skin and his dark locks spread like halo on the white pillowcase. Side by side, legs tangled, kissing, panting into each other’s mouths.

Unceremoniously, John takes off his jumper and t-shirt, drops them in a pile on the floor. Shivers as Sherlock slides his palms down along John’s chest, then drags his nails against his sides on the way back up.

He lets his hands roam over broad shoulders and strong back, then tears them away to begin unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt.

”Up,” he says, breathless, and Sherlock obliges, raises his upper body so that John can free his arms from the shirt. Lies down side by side again, kisses along Sherlock’s throat. Licks his earlobe, then sucks it into his mouth, hears Sherlock breathe heavily.

Sherlock reaches for the top button of John’s jeans. ”Off. Now.”

”Yes, you too.” He sits up to remove his last pieces of clothing and then watches, in awe, as Sherlock slides out of his trousers and pants in one fluid motion.

”God, let me see you.” John just can’t tear his eyes away from the sight in front of him. Lets his hand travel reverently over muscles, protruding ribs, scars and birthmarks.

”You’re perfect,” he mumbles. ”So fucking perfect.”

Sherlock uses his bodyweight to press John down flat on his back. Skin to skin, and then, as Sherlock shifts with intention, cock to cock.

John lets his head fall back into the pillow, closes his eyes to let the unreal sensations flood him - Sherlock’s body, covering him; gingerly grinding into him- John frees a hand to bring them together.

” _Fuck…_ ” Sherlock whispers as they’re finding a rhythm.

”Say it again,” he mumbles, and Sherlock obliges. Leans closer and whispers, with wet lips against John’s ear, a slow, teasing string of profanities. It sends shivers down John’s spine.

And when Sherlock sits up, folds his long muscular legs underneath himself and then begins to crawl downwards, John grabs a fistful of the white sheet, squeezes the fabric tight to ground himself.

” _Oh fuck_ ,” he whispers, the words stuttered, as Sherlock’s warm, wet mouth slides down the length of his cock. Sherlock pushes John’s thighs apart, then gets down on his stomach in between them, bracing on his elbows.

John groans loudly out into the room, strains to keep his hips still. Sherlock’s taking him deep; John feels his cock hitting against the roof of his mouth, his throat.

”Yes… oh, Sherlock- please…”

He’s about to tangle a hand in Sherlock’s hair, but remembers at the last moment the fresh wound there. Settles to brush his fingers along his cheek, touching the place where Sherlock’s stretched lips meet his cock. Runs his fingertips over the hollow created in Sherlock’s cheek as he sucks him harder- ” _Oh, fuck, you’re good-_ ”

Hears a pained sound from Sherlock, like a whimper, and for a second he thinks he might have hurt him somehow. But when he hears it again and realises it’s a sound not of pain, but of need and arousal, he has to rather abruptly push Sherlock off.

”Stop! God, _Christ_ ,” he pants, looks away to try to calm himself down, because the sight of Sherlock’s swollen, wet lips is not helpful right now.

Drags him up on top of him again, kisses him deeply and notices the taste of himself-

”Is there anything you’re not brilliant at? Fuck, your mouth, Sherlock, that was amazing, how did you get so good at-”

He manages to stop himself before finishing the sentence. And despite the fact that he’s so turned on his head is practically spinning, a few unwelcome thoughts still flash through his mind, causing a sharp stab somewhere deep in his chest.

Hurries to put a finger across Sherlock’s (perfect, wet, flushed) lips. ”Don’t answer.”

It looks like Sherlock is smiling, but he buries his face in John’s neck before he can really tell.

”Are you… jealous?” Sherlock asks without looking up.

Yes.” His voice sounds raspy. Wraps his arms tighter around Sherlock’s back. ”I am.”

”You’re not exactly a virgin yourself,” Sherlock mumbles, placing wet kisses on John’s throat. ” _Three Continents Watson_ , eh.”

”How do you know about that stupid- That’s not. It’s not-” John’s voice trails off because, really, there’s not so much he can say. It’s just that there are so many things he didn’t know about. Thinks again that he’s been so fucking blind.

Maybe Sherlock sensed that he’d drifted off into thoughts, because he sinks his teeth into him, hard, right over his neck. John curses loudly- then laughs.

Uses the surge of adrenaline to flip them over; has Sherlock flat on his back in no time. Holds his wrists in a firm grip above his head, sits on top of him to anchor his legs. Sherlock is struggling, giggling. The sound of his laughter fills John’s heart with so much warmth it might melt.

But then Sherlock stops laughing, relaxes under his grip, and John lets go of his hands. For a moment, everything stills. They’re silently looking at each other, and John sees Sherlock’s eyes shining with love and desire.

The words just escape him, without any kind of thinking it through.

”I want to fuck you.”

Sherlock inhales sharply, closes his eyes. John immediately regrets being so forward; tries to take it back.

”Sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

Sherlock opens his eyes again. ”No,” he says, and John thinks he’s been an idiot, feels his cheeks burn.

”No, I mean,” Sherlock’s stumbling over his words. ”I mean, yes. Yes. It’s just-” His voice is thick. ”It’s just that I’ve waited a fucking decade to hear you say that.”

”Have you?” That emotional mess is back in John’s chest again, he tries to compose himself. Needs to push the implications of this out of his mind for a while, because he’s not willing to lose this moment to sentimentality.

”Well, I’ve waited a decade to fuck you.”

Sees Sherlock’s eyes widen, and thinks that he’s beginning to learn a little bit about what works here, what works with Sherlock. For Sherlock. _And it’s just the beginning._

”Really?” Sherlock says, shakily.

John leans down, begins to kiss his way from his neck to his chest; lingers at the nipples, so close that he can feel the vibrations from Sherlock’s quickened heartbeats.

”’Course,” he says with his lips on the sparsely haired stomach. ”You bet. Since that very first night, at Angelo’s. Too bad you brushed me off.”

Sherlock is about to say something, but stops when John sits up between his legs, then firmly pushes his knees up. Sherlock’s entire body seems to have tensed up, and John runs his hands up and down over the back of Sherlock’s strong thighs.

”Relax.” John bends over to kiss him, probes with his tongue deep into Sherlock’s mouth and is rewarded with a whimper.

Sherlock breaks away from the kiss. ”John, I-”

John looks up. There’s a tense furrow between Sherlock’s eyebrows.

”I haven’t, erm, showered, or, you know-”

John lowers his head to let his tongue taste the salty skin of Sherlock’s left supraclavicular fossa; inhales the rich scent of him.

”Couldn’t care less,” he whispers; sits back up again to push Sherlock’s legs further up, until his feet are planted flat on the mattress.

He closes his fist around Sherlock’s cock, works him until he’s fully hard again, then quickly presses a flat thumb against his hole. Sherlock’s breathy moan goes straight to John’s neglected cock.

”Lube?”

Sherlock twists his torso, manages to stretch his arm just far enough to open the bedside table drawer. Turns back to drop lube and an unopened ten-pack of condoms on the bed. This conjures a few fleeting mental images about Sherlock and his sexual history - the one John up until a few days ago didn’t think existed - but he’s too turned on right now to let himself get distracted by that.

Flicks open the lid and then returns. This time, he pushes his thumb just inside, proceeds to press it down against the ring of muscles. Sherlock moans, loudly, the sound traveling straight to John’s cock, making it twitch.

John keeps pressing, stretching, perhaps a little bit impatiently but really, he feels like he can’t wait another minute.

” _Fuck,_ ” Sherlock whispers, his breath coming in hard puffs from his nose now. ”Oh, fuck. Is this happening?”

”Yes…” John murmurs back. ”God, I can’t wait. You have no idea how much I want you.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen. ”Tell me.”

John smiles. ”Sure. This is all I’ve thought about, since running into you that night before Christmas. The morning after, when you came to wake me up… I wanted to pull you down on top of me in the sofa. Imagined you sitting on top of me, riding my cock-”

John exhales, it comes out shakily. Allows himself to linger on the mental image for a little while.

He switches from his thumb to his index finger, pushes in to the second knuckle and Sherlock is squirming, his cock is pressed hard against his stomach. A pool of shiny precome is forming there. John lets his other hand make trails in the wetness, but without touching his cock.

”Tease,” Sherlock murmurs.

”You’re all I can think about, Sherlock. And yeah, I may have slept around but I’ve never, ever been with someone like you. You’re the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

Sherlock’s respiration is getting faster, his cheeks and chest are flushed, and he’s moving his hips to press down against John’s finger.

”God, if you could see yourself,” John whispers. ”I have never wanted anyone as badly as I want you right now. I can’t wait.”

Leans forward to kiss him, sloppily, keeps massaging, pressing, and Sherlock groans into his mouth.

”What about you, then?” John says quietly. ”You said you’ve thought about us, before..?”

”Oh yes,” Sherlock replies on an exhale.

”When did you first think about this, us? How soon, after we’d met?” John removes his finger for a short while, gives his aching cock a few hard strokes to relieve the pressure. Sees Sherlock lifting his head to watch, which doesn’t really help things.

Lets go of his cock and breeches him again, two fingers this time, and Sherlock moans. Sets a quicker pace, begins to fuck him with his fingers.

”First - _ah!_ \- first night,” Sherlock stutters. ”After- _ah, fuck_ \- I said dinner. And you, _oh_. You said starving, and I got the feeling maybe- you weren’t just talking about - food.”

Again, John has to focus to not allow an ocean of regret engulf him.

”I wasn’t. Oh, fuck, Sherlock- I remember getting back here, earlier that night, all breathless and laughing. Christ. I wanted like mad to just press you against the wall and-”

”God I wish you had.”

John stops moving, just keeps his fingers in place inside of him; bends over to kiss him. Sherlock grabs his head with both hands, holds him there for a long time as they keep kissing. Breaks the kiss to look at Sherlock’s face, sees heavy bedroom eyes and flushed cheeks.

”Look at you. I never dreamt…” He sits up again, pushes his fingers a little bit further in and then presses them up.

” _Ah, fuuuuck_ -” Sherlock moans loudly, bucks his hips up in a sudden movement and John feels privately a bit smug to have been able to find the spot on first try. Presses in a bit harder now and Sherlock is starting to sway more urgently against his hand.

” _Yes, that’s it_ ,” John whispers. ”That’s it, love-”

He wraps his other hand around Sherlock’s cock, strokes him a bit, then ghosts over his tight balls.

”I’m gonna replace my fingers with my cock now, yeah?” John murmurs, his voice coming out low and breathy. ”I can’t wait to fuck you. Christ, Sherlock-”

”Please,” Sherlock gasps. ”Please, John-”

John withdraws his fingers, sits up more on the bed. Fumbles around to find the condoms, rolls one on with a shaky hand. He’s harder than he’s been in a very, very long time. Sherlock takes a pillow and pushes it underneath his hips, then blindly pats his hand around the mattress until he finds the bottle of lube. John takes it from him, then applies a generous amount on himself and Sherlock.

Moves into place between Sherlock’s legs, then takes himself in hand to line up. When his glans presses bluntly against Sherlock’s hole, neither of them can be quiet.

”It’s been a while,” Sherlock mumbles.

”Don’t worry.” John hears his own voice all hoarse, raspy. He shifts his body weight to press forward, and is surprised by the unreal sensation of his glans slipping past Sherlock’s ring of muscles. They both groan, loudly, and John sees Sherlock’s mouth form into an o as he tries to control his breathing and muscles. John is using all the self control he has left to keep still.

”Yes.” Sherlock begins to slowly rock his hips, and John meets him gently. Feels his cock sliding deeper inside with every soft, rocking motion.

”Yes, fuck, yes-” Sherlock keeps whispering, insistently.

Sharp surges of arousal running through him. He begins to thrust faster, still shallow, just a little bit more than the tip. Sherlock has his head lifted up from the pillow, is intensely staring down. Small beads of sweat are trickling down his forehead, the pale skin of his throat and chest are flushed red.

As they keep moving against each other, the careful gentleness and the soft whispers are soon replaced by much more urgent exclamations. The room fills with heavy breathing, moans, occasional creaky noises from Sherlock’s bed, and scattered, short clipped words of _yes!_ and _oh!_ and _fuck, just like that-_

John has placed Sherlock’s legs so that they’re resting on his shoulders, and is leaning his upper body forward against the back of his thighs. Sees Sherlock take his cock in hand to begin to rapidly jerk himself off.

”Yes, that’s it,” John whispers. ”Good boy.” Sherlock’s mouth fall slack. ”You feel amazing, so fucking perfect-”

It’s like they’ve done this, together, a thousand times before. Effortless, the way their bodies fit together. John is burning.

Feels himself edging closer, rapidly now.

”I’m gonna come,” he stutters, slamming hard into Sherlock, the hard slapping sound from skin on skin filling the room before he stills, tips over.

He comes in long hard pulses, deep inside of him, and then watches transfixed as Sherlock throws his head back, eyes squeezed shut as he comes, white ejaculate painting stripes across his chest and stomach.

Breathes-

John grabs the base of the condom and pulls out, and Sherlock winces. Flops down on the bed next to him, and they lie there for a long moment, catching their breath, not speaking but just looking at each other.

A big, predatory-looking grin is spreading across Sherlock’s face, making John laugh.

”What’s up with the scary smile?” he chuckles, his voice still breathless. ”You look like you’re going to eat me alive or something.”

Sherlock’s grin grows even wider. ”You’re mine now. Just so you know.”

John smiles, wipes a pearl of sweat away from Sherlock’s temple. Cups his stubbly cheek in his hand. Leans forward to kiss him, softly, on the lips. ”Just so you know,” he says, quietly. ”I’ve always been.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

It’s almost surprisingly easy, the way their lives settle around each other again. _As if I’d never left_ , John sometimes thinks.

Sherlock is keeping himself busy with cases, John is working his shifts at surgery, which means neither of them has what other people would consider a normal schedule. Except for the days when Rosie is with them, of course, because Sherlock insists that children need predictability and ’healthy routines’, which actually rendered John speechless the first time he heard him say it.

But on all the other days, it’s not unusual for John to come home around seven o’clock in the morning after a night shift to find Sherlock still awake, busy with his microscope in the kitchen or in the midst of papers and documents scattered all over the floor.

In fact, since Sherlock rarely sleeps during normal hours, John has gotten into the habit of picking up tea and some bagels or croissants on his way back from those night shifts. Together they will settle in their chairs for a while to eat before finally getting some much needed rest.

”Is it time?” John asks, as he notices Sherlock’s eyelids getting heavy.

”Mmm.” Sherlock relocates himself the very short distance from his chair to the sofa, boneless body falling into the soft pillows there.

”Wouldn’t the bed be better?” John already knows it’s a losing battle, yet can’t refrain from asking, each and every time.

”Just going to lie here for a short while first,” Sherlock mumbles. John smiles, picks up the blanket from the floor and spreads it across Sherlock’s gangly body. Lets his hand rest on Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment. ”Alright,” he says. ”Sleep tight.”

John closes the curtains to keep the daylight out, then goes off to the bedroom. He falls asleep the moment he shuts his eyes, a warm, soft feeling of contentment in his chest. Life is good, he thinks. It’s all good.

***  
When the daylight gets too sharp for the sitting room curtains to suffice, Sherlock comes shuffling down the hallway, mattress tipping as he gets in, crawls in under the covers, close to John.

John forces his heavy eyes open, checks the alarm clock. They’ve only slept about four hours.

”Sleep well, Sherlock,” he mumbles, hopeful that it will get his message across. But of course, it doesn’t, because four hours is usually all the shut eye that Sherlock will need.

”John? Are you awake?"

”No,” he groans into the pillow.

It’s been a crazy shift, with two car accidents and a horrific stab wound. Thankfully, they all seemed to be critical but stable when he left for home. But he’s been on his feet for fourteen hours straight, and could really, really use some more sleep.

”John, listen. I read something fascinating today.”

John sighs, but can’t help to smile a little, anyway. Knows he’s a sucker for Sherlock, will never be able to resist whatever he’s offering.

”What?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.

”Male honeybees develop from unfertilised eggs. The queen is their only parent. Thus, they only have a single set of sex chromosomes, unlike the female bees who have both mother and father. Did you know that?”

”Really? Huh. No, I did not know that.”

”It was first hypothesised in 1845, by a parish priest in Poland. Johannes Dzierson. He came to this understanding purely by observation. Was met with tremendous scepticism. But science eventually proved him right.” Sherlock steeples his fingers, seems for a moment to be lost in his thoughts.

”I see,” John says. He’s beginning to wake up now, and so, apparently, is his cock. Draws Sherlock in closer, revels in the warm sensation of skin against skin, the scent of him.

”Still some fascinating gaps in the knowledge of bees, though. Sometimes I think studying them would be.. not so different from my work here. Bit less straining, though, perhaps.”

”Mm hm,” John says, trailing a finger down Sherlock’s side, squeezing his prominent hip bone. ” _Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective and Beekeeper_. Yeah, I think it could work.”

Sherlock rolls over to his side, begins to place small kisses on John’s neck, just below his left ear.

”John,” Sherlock murmurs into his ear, voice low; the moist air and warmth sending a spike of arousal down his spine. ”What do you think about South Downs?”

”South Downs? It’s lovely. Why?”

”Nothing.” He moves closer, buries his face in John’s neck. ”I could stay like this forever.”

”Me too, Sherlock.” John shifts against him, runs his hand softly over his hair. Suddenly laughs.

”What?” Sherlock asks.

”It’s just.. I still can’t believe it. Seems we actually got our happy ending, after all this bloody time.”

”No,” Sherlock mumbles into his hair. ”You’re mistaken.”

John looks up, lifts his eyebrows. ”You don’t think this qualifies as a happy end?”

”Well, yes, but it’s not. It’s not the end.” Sherlock smiles. ”It’s not even the beginning of the end. But it might be the end of the beginning.”

”Wow, impressive. Quoting Churchill, are we?”

”The one and only.”

”Nice. Well, we’ve certainly had a hell of a long beginning. I’m more than ready for the next part.”

”Mmm. Same.” Sherlock’s hand travels across John’s back, and then downwards, until his fist closes around John’s hardening cock, begins to move.

” _Oh_ ,” John whispers. ”God, you. You’re…” His breathing gets more ragged, he searches for words, then laughs a breathy laugh. ”You’re the bee’s knees, Sherlock, that’s what you are.” His voice hitches as Sherlock begins to stroke him harder.

”Yes… just like that, perfect… God you’re good with your-” John stops talking, and instead, lets out a throaty moan as Sherlock quickly slides down to take him into his mouth.

” _Fuck! Ahh_ -” John lifts his head and shoulders from the pillow, looks down to watch. He puts his left hand in Sherlock’s soft hair, brushes it away from his forehead. Sherlock glances up to meet his eyes, his heart shaped lips stretched around him.

John tries desperately to stop himself but it’s already too late. He pulls, somewhat perfunctory, on his hair but Sherlock doesn’t move. John closes his eyes and lets himself be immersed in the unreal sensation of Sherlock swallowing repeatedly around him as he comes.

” _Sorry_ ,” he whispers as he comes back, catches his breath. ”Wanted to last but Christ, Sherlock, the sight of you, with my cock in your mouth…”

He pulls Sherlock by the arm until he falls down right next to him, and despite the fact that he just came, he still feels a new shiver of arousal as he watches Sherlock licking traces of his semen from the corners of his mouth.

John knows he’s probably smiling like a fool.  
” _That_ … was amazing.”

”Really?”

”Of course it was. Amazing…” He leans forward, kisses him deeply. ”Extraordinary.”

John moves his hand over Sherlock’s tenting pyjama bottoms, runs it up and down along his erection.

”And now… I’m going to make you beg for mercy.”

Sherlock looks at him, defiantly. ”I’ve never begged for mercy in my life.”

John locks his eyes on Sherlock, decisively. Makes sure to wipe away the grin, schools his face into a stern expression. He sees Sherlock’s smirk disappearing, his eyes widening.

”Twice.”

 

THE END (of the beginning)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for all your lovely support along the way of this little story. Your kudos and kind and encouraging comments have really brightened up my days, and made writing so much more fun. Thank you!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments greatly appreciated :)


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